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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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THE LOST RING 
AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



CAROLINE A. MASON 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
CHARLES G. AMES 




3T 



*sjW 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

1891 






Copyright, 1891, 
By CHARLES MASON. 

All rights reserved. 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 



CONTENTS 



To the Poets 11 

The Lost Ring 13 

The Sailing of the Ship 21 

Dernier Ressort 23 

The King's Quest 25 

St. Valentine 26 

Love 27 

Two Goals 28 

Waking 30 

En Voyage 32 

We Three 33 

Influence 34 

Not Yet 35 

Question and Answer 36 

Who can outwit his Fate? .... 37 

Dark Hours 38 

Optimist 40 

Caged 42 

Unattained 43 

Blossom and Fruit 45 

Peradventure 45 

Transmutation . . . . . . . 47 

Child's Play 48 

The Solvent of Doubt 49 

Thought and Speech 59 

The Cost 60 

Who knows? 60 

An Open Secret 61 



iv CONTENTS 

Compensation 61 

Be like the Sun 62 

Waiting 62 

The Four Mottoes 63 

Le Roi est Mort ! Vive le Roi ! ... 65 

A Tale of Two Buckets . . . . 65 

An Incident 66 

The Dame and the Critic . . . ... 68 

A Poem of Nature 73 

Nature and Poet 77 

January 81 

February 81 

March 82 

April 83 

May 83 

June 84 

July 85 

August 85 

September 86 

October 87 

November 87 

December 88 

Spring 89 

In May 90 

A Day in Summer 92 

In Midsummer 93 

October Ineffable 94 

Autumn 95 

In Autumn 96 

October Woods 98 

Summer in Winter 98 

Homesick 100 

The Rain 101 

Buttercups 103 

What the Birds say 104 

The Chickadee's Song 105 

To a Katydid 106 

Why Cats wash after Eating . . . .108 

Wonder-Land 108 



CONTENTS v 

My Heritage 109 

Do they miss Me at Home ? 115 

The Good Wife 116 

A Mother's Love 118 

Baby's Wardrobe 119 

"OnlyMe" 121 

The Child's Last Wish 121 

May Dreams 123 

Mabel's Cure 124 

A Memory 125 

The Reason 127 

Requital 128 

Reconciliation 129 

In Memoriam 130 

The Grave by the Euxine 131 

Aroma 132 

Dissolving Views 133 

When I am Old 134 

The Sundial 136 

A Christmas Legend 137 

Under a Picture of "The Magdalene" . 141 

The Outcast 141 

Amin, the Miser 143 

A Voice for the Poor 146 

A Plea for the Dumb 152 

Touch not, taste not, handle not . . . 154 

Against Odds 155 

Single Combat 156 

Trust 157 

Perfect through Suffering .... 158 

"Perfect Love casteth out Fear" . . 159 

"He giveth to his Beloved in Sleep" . . 160 

" Consider the Lilies " 161 

Lord's Day 163 

Matin Hymn 164 

Eventide 165 

No Night 166 

The Eternal Wisdom 168 

Martha or Mary ? 169 



VI CONTENTS 

Lost and Found 170 

I said 171 

The Lost Sheep 172 

Satisfied 173 

Hymn 174 

The Retreat 175 

In War Time 176 

The Will for the Deed 178 

After a Victory 179 

Poem for Decoration Day 181 

Flowers for our Dead 185 

President Lincoln's Grave . . . .186 

Charles Sumner 187 

Channing 188 

To Charles Sumner 189 

The Library 191 

Fitchburg 193 



INTRODUCTION 

This little volume is primarily a monument to 
the gifts and character of a woman whose mem- 
bership in the guild of American authors has 
long been recognized. It contains over one hun- 
dred poems, selected from a much larger num- 
ber, whose production extended over nearly a half 
century of her quiet life. The aim of the com- 
pilation has been to illustrate the scope of her 
mind, heart, and poetic genius, — to show the 
depth, breadth, and quality of her interest in 
nature, humanity, and the divine order of the 
world. Her lively artistic sense was exalted by 
rare spirituality ; her apt literary faculty was 
ever the servant of insight and experience ; her 
minstrelsy was but the voicing of her aspiration 
and her love for the true, the beautiful, and the 
good. 

So far as the material permitted, the order of 
arrangement has been logical rather than chrono- 
logical, that the wide variety of subjects and 
treatment might yet yield a certain unity of im- 
pression, suggestive of the simplicity and con- 



viii INTRODUCTION 

sistency of the character here imperfectly re- 
flected. For the life of Mrs. Mason was the 
noblest of her poems. 

Seventy-two pieces, samples of her earlier work, 
published in 1852, in a volume entitled " Utter- 
ance," though well received, were not uniformly 
equal in sentiment, substance, or execution to her 
maturer productions ; and but few of the former 
are here included, though some of them have be- 
come popular favorites. " Do They Miss Me at 
Home ? " has been sung by thousands of English- 
speaking people who never knew the author's 
name. With the deepening of her own life her 
fingers instinctively sought the strings of the 
" sacred harp," and several of her devout utter- 
ances have been incorporated into modern hym- 
nology. But the timbrel served for lighter 
moods. And if, amid the storm and stress of 
war, it was not a woman's part to sound the 
trumpet, it will yet be seen that her whole soul 
responded, in the name of Liberty and Union, to 
the nation's passionate struggle for life. It has 
been said that she had " a rare gift for meeting 
occasions ; " and her latest Fitchburg pastor, the 
Rev. W. H. Pierson, thus testifies : u She was 
our local sibyl and seer, and when a word of 
comfort, hope, or gratulation needed to be spoken 
for some occasional or passing event, her towns- 
people resorted to her as to an oracle, and were 
not disappointed." 



INTROD UCTION ix 

Caroline Atherton (Briggs) Mason was born 
in Marblehead, July 27, 1823. Her father was 
Dr. Calvin Briggs, a graduate of Williams Col- 
lege, and an eminent physician and citizen. Her 
mother, Rebecca (Monroe) Briggs, a woman of 
strong, decided character, was the daughter of 
Dr. Ephraim and Mercy (Atherton) Monroe. 
Dr. Monroe, born and educated in Scotland, was 
a surgeon in the military service. Her paternal 
grandfather, the Rev. James Briggs, was a grad- 
uate of Yale College, and for forty-five years the 
minister of Cummington, where he lived to the 
age of eighty ; and of him William Cullen Bry- 
ant, in youth his parishioner, wrote the poem, 
"The Old Man's Funeral." 

Mrs. Mason was the youngest of seven sisters, 
all of whom received their advanced education at 
Bradford Academy, where they used sometimes 
to be spoken of as " the Pleiades." Harriet, 
older by but twenty months than Caroline, and 
endeared to her by near and constant companion- 
ship, became the wife of David T. Stoddard, and 
accompanied him to a mission field among the 
Nestorians, where, after five years of devoted 
service, she died of cholera at Trebizond, and 
was buried on the shores of the Black Sea. The 
heart-cry of her sister in America is heard in the 
poems entitled " Aroma " and " The Grave by 
the Euxine." 



X INTRODUCTION 

Soon after the death of Dr. Briggs, in 1852, 
the family removed to Fitchburg, where, in 
August, 1853, Caroline was married to Charles 
Mason, a lawyer of that place, who, after a union 
of thirty-seven years, survives her, with their one 
son, a physician in his native town. Laurel Hill, 
their residence, is a beautiful and retired loca- 
tion, yet near the city and overlooking its densely 
peopled valley. She died June 13, 1890. 

She retained unimpaired through life the rev- 
erence for sacred things in which she had been 
educated under the old-time theology of New 
England ; but with maturing freedom and en- 
largement of mind and heart she grew into a 
sunnier faith and a larger hope ; her whole na- 
ture yielded to the demand for a universe of 
harmony ; her being expanded in the conscious- 
ness of the constant presence and care of the all- 
wise, all-loving Father, and in the light of the 
perfect humanity illustrated in the spirit and life 
of Jesus of Nazareth, — an expansion which not 
only made intolerance impossible, but drew her 
into ready sympathy with the devout and faith- 
ful of every name. 

Charles G. Ames. 

June, 1891. 



TO THE POETS 

Reapers in God's great field of Truth, 
I would come after, like gentle Ruth, — 

Gleaning of that ye have left behind ; 
Happy my simple wealth to bind. 

If ye should reckon me overbold, 
Standing amid your sheaves of gold, 

Do but hearken the Master's call, — 
" See, my reapers, that ye let fall, 

" Out of the plenty in my land, 
Here and therefor the gleaner's hand" 

So I follow where ye have trod, 
Reapers who reap thejields of God. 



THE LOST RING 

" The blooms of May ! the blooms of May ! 
The apple-orchards bright and gay ! 
The springing grass, the charmed air ! 

Earth, but thou art in thy prime, 
And I am old before my time, 

And faded ; thou art young and fair." 

Thus moaned my friend to me one day, 
Or to herself, — I cannot say. 

We stood beside the orchard wall : 
A look of care was on her face, 
But, save that sign, I could not trace 

Time's touch, nor wherefore she let fall 

Such mournful words. " It is not so," 

1 cried ; " this witless speech forego ! 

'T is you are young ; the earth is not, — 
The poor old Mother ! What you see 
Of bloom and beauty is not she : 

Her years are manifold, I wot. 

" Her offspring these, — this grass we tread, 
These bloomy sweets above our head ; 



14 THE LOST RING 

And she, — why, she is old, I say ! 
Good father Adam saw her birth. 
Go to ! why envy this gray earth, 

And you just twenty and a day ? " 

She stooped and plucked a blossom dead, 
By some rude wind untimely shed. 

" Ah, what rejuvenating art 
Shall reach it now ? And I," she cried, 
" Am like it, crushed and flung aside ; 

And oh, I am so old at heart ! " 

Alas for hearts whence youth has fled ! 
" The years are pitiful," I said, 

Half guessing what her ail might be ; 
And wishing, if it could be so, 
To medicine her bitter woe, — 
Too bitter, as it seemed to me. 

" Time bringeth healing ; hearts grown sick, 
And wounds that quiver to the quick, 

Yield to his balsam and his balm. 
Take courage ! years that might increase 
Another's ail shall bring you peace, 

Contentment and a steady calm." 

" Not so," she answered ; " grief and dole 
Make long abiding in a soul 

Stung with remorse ; — nay, let me speak 
I 've borne my load so long alone \ 



THE LOST RING 15 

Oh, may I tell you ? I have grown, 
God help me, I have grown so weak ! " 

She leaned against the orchard wall. 
" Dear friend," I whispered, " tell me all, 

Or tell me naught, as suits you best ; 
Only, if love may wait on grief, 
Or aught avail to bring relief, 

You know my heart ; and, for the rest " — 

" And for the rest," she made reply, 
" I shall sleep calmer when I lie 

Beneath the grass, and sweeter, too, 
For hoping that you '11 come some day 
To my poor grave with him, and say, 
* She loved you, and she died for you ! ' 

" For oh, I should be glad, so glad, 
If this could be ! I have not had 

So much of life's sweet wine, be sure, 
Mixed in my cup that I should care 
To drain it, and one well may spare 

The bitterness that knows no cure." 

" Now Heaven forgive you, Mabel Vere ! 
You shall not speak, I will not hear, 

Such words as these. God's gifts are good, 
And sweetest of them all is life. 
Ah, who are we to be at strife 

With him, and with his ways at feud ? 



16 THE LOST RING 

" And death, — that, too, in his own time, 
Is good, for by it we do climb 

To fuller life ; but, to forestall 
His providence and court the fate 
His higher wisdom bids us wait, 

'T were better not to have lived at all ! " 

Thus with stern love that did not dare 
To shield her fault, or weakly spare 

Her weakness, — thus I answered her. 
She stood with downcast eyes a space, 
Then raised to mine her tear-wet face, 

With all its passionate blood astir. 

" Yes, I will tell you ! You shall know 
The secret grief that stabs me so : 

It may be you will wonder less 
At those wild, wicked words I spoke ; 
For, darling, when the heart is broke 

Who heeds its ravings of distress ? 

" For I did rave : it would be hard, 
I know, to lie beneath the sward, 

And I so young in years. Ah, well, 
The world is very fair to see, — 
Or was ; — but turn your eyes from me, 

And listen to what once befell. 

" The blooms of May ! the blooms of May ! 
One long, long year ago to-day, 



THE LOST RING 17 

I stood beneath this very tree : 
My woman's fate was in my hand ; 
Awhile the fluttering thing I scanned, 

Then lightly let it go from me. 

" What trifles vex a maiden's mood, 
And stir the currents of her blood 

To wild revolt and wilful ends ! 
A vain caprice ungratified, 
A whim defeated or defied, — 

And strangers part, who met as friends. 

" I cannot tell if it were pride 
Or pique, or aught to each allied, 

But I was young and foolish both. 
He came, for he had seen me pass ; 
I heard his footstep in the grass, 

And all my heart was in my mouth ! 

" Sweet bird-notes rang from all the trees : 
I heard a sweeter tune than these 

In every step as on he came ; 
Soft-murmuring bees flew in and out 
The honeyed apple-blooms about : 

A softer murmur fell, — my name. 

" But ah, methought he did not woo 
As lovers should, as lovers do, — 

With sugared speech and flattering air ; 
He never once had whispered me 



18 THE LOST RING 

That I was fair, — oh, vanity ! — 

Nor praised my lips nor praised my hair. 

" And yet I knew — But why essay 
With loitering words my tale to stay ? 

Had he not loved me long and well ? 
Fool ! royal plenty at my side, 
Yet choosing husks, and satisfied 

To drop the sweetness for the shell ! 

" As near he drew, a bee, half strayed 
In its bewildered circuit, made 

An instant's lodgment on my face : 
He bent and brushed it from my cheek, — 
Fair chance some courtly praise to speak, 

(I thought,) if one had but the grace ! 

" Comparisons are quick to come 
To lovers' lips, but his are dumb. 

The dolt ! no image to descry, 
Nor say, ' Your cheek so like the rose, 
What wonder that the poor bee knows 

No better ? Who can blame ? Not I ! ' 

" Instead, * The blundering thing ! ' he cried. 

1 It has not stung you ? ' I replied, 
' And if it had, why make ado ? ' 

' Because,' he answered, ' it were much 
To shield you from each harmful touch, 
And I am hurt with what hurts you.' 



TEE LOST RING 19 

" Love's own response, — so good, so kind ! 
But I was deaf, but I was blind. 

He stood one moment pondering, 
Then, without further sign or look, 
Deftly from off his finger took 

A little shining, golden ring. 

" 'It was my mother's : when she died, 
She bade me keep it — for my bride ; 

Her gift, she said ' (his words came slow). 
' O Mabel, may she give it you ? 
I love you well, I love you true ; 

You '11 wear it, darling ? Tell me so.' 

" What ailed me ? With a cruel scorn, 
A sudden madness, passion-born, 
I dashed his pleading hand aside. 
1 1 do not love, I cannot wed, 
And so I will not mock the dead 
With wearing of her ring ! ' I cried. 

" And as I purposed, — had he seen ? — 
The ring slid down among the green, 

Which shrank, as loath such spoil to take ; 
And while I looked, each grassy blade 
Assumed a dagger's point and made 
Mute thrusts at me, or seemed to make. 

" O sacrilege ! — but I was torn 
With jealous fears : could I have borne 



20 TEE LOST RING 

To see another wear the ring ? 

No ; lost to me, there let it lie, 

Though every careless passer-by- 
Smote with rude heel the hallowed thing ! 

" But rallying, ' Alas for man's 
Forecasting ! Fate forbids the banns, 
And, certes, she is right,' I said : 
* Go, sir ! who weds with me, I wis, 
Must woo in other guise than this : 
I like not dealings with the dead ! ' 

" He answered not ; he held my gaze 
One moment with his own, — amaze, 

Scorn, pity, anguish in his look ; 
Then turning, left me to the fate 
Which I had dared, — so desolate, 

To think on it I could not brook ! 

" And ever since that fateful morn 
Which banned me with his pitying scorn, 

Life has been little worth to me ; — 
If that be life, whose every breath 
Is but a whispered prayer for death, 

Careless how soon the end may be." 

She bent to meet my mute caress : 
" Heaven send you sweet forgetfulness," 

I murmured. " That were doubtful gain,' 
She cried ; " but would, oh brave heart lost ! 



THE SAILING OF THE SHIP 21 

Would thou couldst know the bitter cost, 
And all my grief, remorse, and pain ! " 

A footstep on the other side, 

Just where the skirting bushes hide 

The orchard wall ! A moment more, 
And, clearing at a bound the space, 
He stands with Mabel face to face, — 

The lover whom her thoughts deplore ! 

And what remains to tell ? I turned 
And left them. When the sunset burned 

In the sweet west, we saw them pass : 
I looked , a ring was on her hand, 
The same — but you will understand : — 

It was not lost beneath the grass ! 



THE SAILING OF THE SHIP 

We stood and watched it from the shore ; — 
How shapely 't was ! how proud and fair ! 

But what from her of hope it bore, 
And what it left me of despair, 
To think on it I do not dare. 

I spoke : " Some lover's signal — see ! 
He hails you from the ship, Lisette." 

Her proud lip curled. " T is naught to me," 
She said, and gayly smiled — and yet, 
Beshrew me, but her eyes were wet ! 



22 THE SAILING OF THE SHIP 

And if I gazed on her with aught 
Of Love's concern beneath a mien 

Too careless for her afterthought, 
My reasons were my own, I ween ; 
What need by her to be foreseen ? 

Oh, sweet Lisette ! and proud as sweet ! 
What hindered that she should not take 

Her heart and show it me ? — but fleet 
The ship sped on, and in its wake, 
What hopes lay drowning for her sake ! 

For oh, I loved her ! I had thought 
That very morn to tell her so ; 

But Love, with doubt already fraught, 
Grows to Despair as doubts do grow ; — 
And did she love him ? — yes or no ? 

The wind blew roughly out to sea ; 
I felt her shiver as we stood ; 
" Only soft airs should circle thee ! " 
I cried, and made as though I would 
Have drawn her landward an I could. 

She shrank away : " I like it best, 

This fierce north breeze ; I do not care 

For sunny south wind or for west, 

And I can bear what others bear," — 
She said, and smoothed her sea-blown hair. 



DERNIER RES SORT 23 

I saw — in spite of her — I saw 

Her heart had gone with that great ship ! 

Fierce blew the north wind, fierce and raw, 
I looked to see her roses slip, 
Congealed, away from cheek and lip ; — 

They freshened with the fresh'ning breeze ; 
I left her standing by the sea. 

But life is made of things like these ; — 
And Life and Death are one to me, 
Since that great ship went out to sea ! 



DERNIER RESSORT 

" When the winter wooes the summer, when No- 
vember mates with May, 

When my dimples match your wrinkles, my 
brown hair your locks of gray, 

Come to me again for answer : but my nay shall 
still be nay. 

" Pardon words that sound unseemly, — but you 

will not understand 
Softer speech." She would have passed him, 

but he stayed her with his hand ; 
Plying still, with love's own blindness, all the 

arts at love's command : 



24 DERNIER RESSORT 

" Hear me ! I have lands and titles ; an with 

me you cross the tide, 
"Wealth shall wait upon your bidding ; not one 

wish shall be denied : 
None would know the peasant's daughter in the 

Baron's haughty bride." 

" Peace ! " she cried. " If I should wed you, 
you would know me bought with gold : 

Looking for all gentle passions, — wifely love 
and trust, — behold, 

Than my perjured heart, no marble more insen- 
sate or more cold ! 

" I should pity like a woman ; you would palter 

like a man ; 
Both would rue the day, heaven-blighted, when 

the wretched farce began : 
And for me, I crave a blessing on my bridal, 

not a ban." 

Pale she stood amid the gloaming ; all the glory 

of her eyes 
Quenched in tears : but still he pleaded, — " she 

w r as foolish, he was wise ; 
Love would come at love's own bidding," — till, 

as deer to covert flies, — 

Hard beset and spent, — she answered (Oh, her 
shame was fair to see !), 



THE KING'S QUEST 25 

" Since no other word can touch you, listen, 

then ; — I am not free ! 
Down in yonder mossy cottage beats a manly 

heart for me. 

" Oh, his eyes are blue as heaven ! Oh, his locks 
are like the sun ! 

And I love him! though of houses, gold, or sil- 
ver, he has none ; 

I have promised I will wed him when the har- 
vest work is done." 

Rosy stood she in the gloaming ; and a certain 

queenly grace, 
Born of maiden truth, and fairer than the 

blushes on her face, 
Sealed the " No " she gave for answer, proudly 

turning from the place. 



THE KINGS QUEST 1 

The King rode fast, the King rode far ; 
" Now, by my crown," quoth he, 
" If I in all the land shall find 
A maiden of contented mind, 

Be she of high or low degree, 
By Pagan rite or Christian signed, 
My consort she shall be." 

1 Recently set to music in London, by an English com- 
poser. 



26 ST. VALENTINE 

But when he chanced the maid to meet, 

So well content was she, 
She would not wed, but, deaf and blind, 
Went on her way. " Alack, I find 

I 'm caught in my own web," quoth he 
" This maiden of contented mind 

Is too content for me ! " 



ST. VALENTINE 

The sleet was blowing : where was any sign 

Of greening valley, call of mating bird ? 

Yet, close beside my ear, a voice I heard — 
A whisper — " Sweet, choose now your valen- 
tine ! " 
" Nay, wait till skies are softer, airs more fine." 

But still, impetuous, fell that whispered word, 

" Choose, choose your valentine ! " 

What was it stirred, 
Like breath of June, this yielding heart of mine ? 

Sudden, the bleak earth blossomed into bowers 
Of bridal beauty : for its wreathing snows, 
Wide banks of creamy jessamine and rose, — 

While on the pane bloomed out great passion- 
flowers. 
And I, — so subtle-sweet Love's whispers are ! — 
Be sure for choice I did not wander far. 



LOVE 27 



LOVE 

I do not ask it thee ! That is not love 

Which waits to be entreated. Love is free 

As God's own life, and of itself doth move. 

Should I say, Love me ? Rather let me prove 
Myself to be love-worthy : then let be ! 

And yet what wretched shams our sad eyes 

see! — 
" I love my Love because my Love loves me ; " — 

Oh, pitiful ! Hast thou no gauge above 
Another's thought by which to rate thine own ? 
No worthier trust, no surer corner-stone 
To build thy temple of sweet hopes upon ? 

God help thee at thy need and give thee 
strength 

To bear the shock of trial when at length 
Thine hour shall write thee desolate, undone. 

Sitting in this sweet stillness all alone, 
I thank my God that with my eyes upon 
His holy stars, I can say reverently, 
" I love my Love because in him I see 
Great nobleness, worthy of all my love, 
A soul all meanness and all feints above ; 
A manly front that dares to face the Right, 



28 TWO GOALS 

That, shouldering Truth, stands ready for the 

fight, 
And following Duty, walks in her sweet light." 

O ye glad stars that overspread the night ! 
I cannot see you for these happy tears, 
Yet know you shining still ; so Love appears : 
I cannot pierce these misty human years 

That hide God's great Hereafter, yet I know 
My love still shining there as here below, 
Only with purer, more ecstatic glow. 
For is not Love immortal ? Stars shall fall, 
And the weird music of the jostling spheres 
Crash into silence ! Love, supreme o'er all, 
Shall throb its calm, grand paean undismayed, 
By nothing daunted and of nought afraid, 
Though old worlds crumble or though new be 
made. 



TWO GOALS 

[at twenty] 

To let my high ambitions spoil 
That should to noblest uses fit, 

To stand in shade and serve as foil 
To those who in the sunshine sit, — 

I will not shape my destiny 

To such poor issues ! — should I grow 



TWO GOALS 29 

Downward, like roots, and thus defy 
God's purpose, and requite Him so ? 

And not aspire and not expand ? — 

O Fame, how grand thou art, and sweet ! 

And may I sit at thy right hand 
Or serve, rejoicing, at thy feet ? 

[at fifty] 

I thank my God He did destroy 

The dream that thralled my youthful soul 
To give me more divine employ 

And loftier aim and worthier goal ; 

To show me how Fame's brightest dream 
Grows dim beside a Purpose high ; 

(Who heeds the rushlight's flickering beam 
When God's great sun is in the sky ?) 

To teach me what a narrow scope 

Is his who looks for his award 
To earthly praise, beneath the cope, 

And not beyond, where dwells the Lord. 

And though, when I am gone, scant dole 
May fall to me of garnered fame, 

If, here and there, some quickened soul 
With tearful gladness name my name, 

Saying, " I 'm worthier for some line, 
Some word of hers," it shall suffice : 



30 WAKING 

It shall be bread to me and wine 
And cheer me even in Paradise ! 



WAKING 

I have done at length with dreaming ; 

Henceforth, thou soul of mine, 
Thou must take up sword and buckler. 

Waging warfare most divine. 

Life is struggle, combat, victory ! 

Wherefore have I slumbered on 
With my forces all unmarshalled, 

With my weapons all undrawn ? 

Oh, how many a glorious record 
Had the angels of me kept 

Had I done instead of doubted, 
Had I warred instead of wept ! 

But begone, regret, bewailing ! 

Ye but weaken, like the rest; 
I have tried the trusty weapons 

Rusting erst within my breast, 

I have wakened to my duty, 
To a knowledge large and deep 

That I recked not of aforetime, 
In my long, inglorious sleep. 



WAKING 31 

In this subtle sense of being 

Newly stirred in every vein, 
I can feel a throb electric, — 

Pleasure half allied to pain. 

'T is so sweet and yet so awful, 

So bewildering, yet brave, 
To be king in every conflict 

Where before I crouched a slave ! 

'T is so glorious to be conscious 

Of a growing power within 
Stronger than the rallying forces 

Of a charged and marshalled sin ! 

Never in those old romances 

Felt I half the thriU of life 
That I feel within me stirring, 

Standing in this place of strife. 

Oh, those olden days of dalliance 
When I wantoned with my fate ! 

When I trifled with a knowledge 
That had well nigh come too late ! 

Yet, my soul, look not behind thee ; 

Thou hast work to do at last : 
Let the brave deeds of the present 

Overarch the crumbled past. 



32 EN VOYAGE 

Build thy great aims high and higher ; 

Build them on the conquered sod 
Where thy weakness first fell Weeding, 

And thy first prayer rose to God. 



EN VOYAGE 

Whichever way the wind doth blow 
Some heart is glad to have it so ; 
Then blow it east or blow it west, 
The wind that blows, that wind is best. 

My little craft sails not alone ; 

A thousand fleets from every zone 

Are out upon a thousand seas ; 

And what for me were favoring breeze 

Might dash another, with the shock 

Of doom, upon some hidden rock. 

And so I do not dare to pray 

For winds to waft me on my way, 

But leave it to a Higher Will 

To stay or speed me ; trusting still 

That all is well, and sure that He 

Who launched my bark will sail with me 

Through storm and calm, and will not fail, 

Whatever breezes may prevail, 

To land me, every peril past, 

Within His sheltering heaven at last. 



WE THREE 33 

Then, whatsoever wind doth blow, 
My heart is glad to have it so ; 
And blow it east or blow it west, 
The wind that blows, that wind is best. 



WE THREE 

A quiet reach of upland brown, 

Green meadows stretching cool between ; 

Below, the busy little town, 

Half hidden in its nest of green. 

Far off, an aged woodman, gray 

With years, and bent with toil and care ; 
His locks, uncovered to the day, 

White-streaming on the summer air ; 

And near, the fall of little feet, 
The music of a child's glad voice, 

A ringing gush of laughter sweet, 
That makes the very hills rejoice ! 

O worn old man ! O laughing child ! 

I stand a link between ye two — 
A quiet woman, thought-beguiled 

One moment by the sight of you. 

What I have been, what I shall be, 
Is mirrored to me as I gaze ; — 



34 INFL UENCE 

My happy childhood's spring-time glee ; 
The coming of my winter days. 

Stream, stream your white locks on the wind, 
And bide, old man, the weary end : 

I am not very far behind, 

And I shall reach you soon, old friend! 

And chirp, glad child, your cheery glee ! 

In heaven's rejuvenating clime 
We shall be mated yet, — we three, — 

In youth's serene, perpetual prime. 

So it doth matter little now ; 

Though, to my mind, best off is he, 
The ripest on Life's fruited bough, — 

Best off and happiest of the three. 



INFLUENCE 

Idling upon the pebbly beach, 
I cast a stone the blue waves o'er ; 

The widening circles mock my reach 
And tremble to the farthest shore ! 

An arrow on its silent course 

Cleaves the blue air with quivering speed 
And, drawn by stern attraction's force, 

The strong globe feels the noiseless deed. 



NOT YET 35 

Forbear, then, man ! — The impious word 
That poisons those poor lips of clay, 

Through all the centuries shall be heard 
And sound beyond the latest day. 

Courage, faint soul ! thine earnest thought 
Shall yet attest its heavenly birth ; 

Till, to a strong completeness wrought, 
It moves and draws the solid earth. 



NOT YET 

Not yet ! Along the purpling sky 

We see the dawning ray ; 
But leagues of cloudy distance lie 

Between us and the day. 

Not yet ! The aloe waits serene 
Its promised advent-hour, — 

A patient century of green 
To one full, perfect flower. 

Not yet ! No harvest song is sung 

In the sweet ear of spring, 
Nor hear we while the blade is young 

The reaper's sickle swing. 

Not yet ! Before the crown, the cross ; 
The struggle, ere the prize ; 



36 QUESTION AND ANSWER 

Before the gain the fearful loss, 
And death ere Paradise ! 



QUESTION AND ANSWER 



When I consider all our scheming ways, 
The unavailing care and skill man spends, 
And ceaseless labor, reaching after ends 

He fails in compassing ; then, turning, gaze 

On Nature, — see how through long, noiseless 
days 
And silent nights, her quiet way she wends, 
Sure of the goal to which her purpose tends, 

Since every force her own mute force obeys, — 
My heart grows restive, questioning why we 

Thus baffled are, while Nature has her will ; 

We, sentient, wise, — she, groping, blind, and 
still. 
The sphinx-like problem plagues me ! Can it 

be 
That were we groping, blind, even as she, 

Fate, of itself, would our designs fulfil ? 



Then Reason answers me : " O heart, forego 
Such graceless, vain deduction ! Otherwhere 
Solution lies. ' Man sows in toil and care,' 

Thou say est, ' reaping failure.' Is it so ? 



WHO CAN OUTWIT HIS FATE? 37 

Then must it be that what he fain would grow 
Were, on the whole, not best, and would not 

square 
With God's designings. Nature does not 
share 
Our mutinies : she is at one, we know, 

With Him who fashioned her. Willing, 
though blind, 
Obedient, though mute, she gropes her way 
To surest issues. This, then, we may say, 

That were we more at one with God's great 

mind, 
Life to our wishes would be oftener kind, 
Nor human schemes so often go astray." 



WHO CAN OUTWIT HIS FATE? 

Who can outwit his fate ? There was a king 
To whom the Oracle revealed a thing 
Of solemn import : " Know," it said, " that thou, 
Great king, to death's all potent spell shalt bow 
In twelve short years." The monarch bent his 

head 
In reverent wise : " The gods know best," he 

said: 
But to himself he muttered, " Since 't is so, 
I '11 crowd the fleeting moments as they go 
With twice their fill of pleasure ; and so pour 
Into twelve years the bliss of twenty-four." 



38 DARK HOURS 

He got him servants ; got him gold and gear ; 
Loaded his groaning tables with good cheer ; 
Drank wine by flagons ; gave himself no rest 
Pursuing pleasures ; when one lost its zest, 
Turned to another ; changed night into day 
With grand illuminations ; left no way 
Unsought, untried, whereby to tax his powers 
Twofold, and conjure from the sated hours 
A double tribute. 

Thus six years went by ; 
Then spoke his Fate : " How couldst thou hope 

to fly 
My fiat ? Who would cope with gods must be 
Himself immortal : bow to destiny ! 
Thy twelve years are accomplished." 

That same night 
The stricken king lay shrouded, cold, and white; 
And they who robed him spoke whereof they 

knew: 
" Who flies his fate, but dares it to pursue ; 
And, score who may, the unerring gods count 

true ! " 



DARK HOURS 

Oh, my tried soul, be patient ! Roughest rinds 
Fold over sweetest fruitage ; heaviest clouds 
Rain the most ample harvests on the fields ; 
The grass grows greenest where the wintry snows 



DARK HOURS 39 

Have fallen deepest, and the fairest flowers 
Spring from old, dead decay. The darkest mine 
Yields the most flashing jewels from its cell, 
And stars are born of darkness, day of night. 
Oh, my tried soul, be patient ! Yet for thee 
Goes on the secret alchemy of life ; 
God, the One-Giver, grants no boon to earth 
That He withholds from thee ; and from the dark 
Of thy deep sorrow shall arise new light, 
New strength to do and suffer, new resolves, 
Perchance new gladnesses and freshest hopes ! 
Oh, there are times when I can no more weep 
That I have suffered, for I know great strength 
Is born of suffering ; and I trust that still, 
Wrapt in the dry husk of my outer life, 
Lie warmer seeds than ever yet have burst 
From its dull covering ; stronger purposes 
Stir consciously within, and make me great 
With a new life — a life akin to God's — 
Which I must nurture for the holy skies. 
Help me ! thou great All-Patient ! for the flesh 
Will sometimes falter, and the spirit fail ; 
Add to my human thy divinest strength, 
When next I waver ; rouse my faith as now, 
That out of darkness I may see great light, 
And follow where it ever leads — to thee ! 



40 OPTIMIST 



OPTIMIST 

A perfect God, he must have planned 

A perfect scheme : his wisdom scanned 

His embryo world ; his forming thought 

Outran the centuries as He wrought. 

He gauged it all, — each seeming flaw, — 

The dreadful fact of sin ; the law 

Of sad heredity, whereby 

The innocent for the guilty die ; 

Truth's birth-throes ; martyr-stings and pains ; 

A dusky continent in chains. 

He gauged it all : He saw that wrong 

Would often win ; He knew the strong 

Would hurt the weak, and honest worth 

Become sweet food for knaves ; that dearth 

Would blight the land, swift lightnings mar, 

And great floods whelm it : schism and war 

Keep bloody carnival above 

His slaughtered laws of truth and love ; 

That sickness with its legion brood — 

Rheums, fevers, palsies, taints of blood — 

Would plague the race. Ah, wherefore, then, 

Project a world of suffering men ? 

Why stayed He not his forming hand ? 

Why issued He that dread command, 

That awful fiat, " Let there be " ? 

Oh, graceless, vain philosophy, 

That seeks with finite grasp to span 



OPTIMIST 41 

The boundaries of infinite plan ! 
Enough for our imperfect thought 
That perfect Love and Wisdom wrought ; 
That not one atom of the whole 
Stupendous scheme but has for goal 
A gracious outcome, hidden, sealed 
Perhaps, but sure to be revealed ; 
That sin and suffering have their place 
In God's economy of grace. 
Ay, sin ! we know not why or how ; 
But, since his wisdom could allow 
This alien offshoot on the tree 
Of healthy being, who are we 
To hurl thereat our puny doubt, 
And murmur, " It were best left out " ? 
Nay, cavil ye who will or can : 
" Let God be true and every man 
A liar," — is there other creed 
Can serve us at our direst need ? 

Thus far our quest, if that be quest 

Which ends where it began. At best, 

We travel in a circle when 

We scan God's wondrous ways with men. 

Still, still we find his boundless love 

The pivot on which all things move. 

Still, focus and circumference 

Are radiating centres whence 

All good evolves, — and evil still 

But the blind agent of his will. 



42 CAGED 

All glory, then, to Him who knew 
Whereof he wrought. All glory, too, 
To that transmuting power which brings 
Such sweetness from such bitter things, — 
Good still from evil, bliss from bane ; 
From weakness, strength ; from losses, gain. 
All glory ! Let the stars outpour 
Their praiseful song as once before, 
When, at the first, creation stood 
Complete, and God pronounced it good. 
All glory ! Let the sons of God 
Still shout for joy, and tell abroad 
Their gladness from each heavenly hill, 
" All, all is good ! " proclaiming still. 



CAGED 

Poor prisoned bird, that sings and sings, 
Unconscious of the gift of wings ; 
Or, knowing it, content to be 
Shorn of its birthright liberty ! 

Like souls — a sadder thrall who bear, 
Or wittingly or unaware — 
Consenting to their prison bars, 
When, haply, they might pierce the stars. 

Oh, I would rather be the clod 

That knows not, cannot know, of God, 



UNATTAINED 43 

Than thus, in sluggish wise, deny 
My title to his open sky ! 

He gave us wings ; He must have meant, 

Thereby, a noble discontent 

To teach us, that we might essay 

To break each bond and soar away. 

What is the cage which shuts us in, 
But our own sloth ? but our own sin ? 
All outward limitations are 
But cobwebs to such bolt and bar. 

For me, no idle lance I tilt 
Against my lot : mine all the guilt ; 
I am my own most bitter foe — 
Ah, this it is which irks me so ! 

If from myself I could set free 
Myself ! At odds I still must be 
Till my victorious wings shall rise, 
Unclogged, and sweep the farthest skies. 



UNATTAINED 



Oh, fair ideals of those far-off days, 
When life was promise, — in what mournful 
guise 



44 UNATTAINED 

They front us now ! We meant to be so wise, 
So good, so great ! What eager, brave essays 
To lift our lives above the common ways 
And make them prodigal of all that lies 
In noble, full achievement ! Still the prize 
Receded ever, ever, and the praise 
Rang hollow. Ah, how impotent appears 
Human ambition, since, who most attains, 
Misses the goal. From every height he gains, 
Ever a loftier its crest uprears ; 
While, still, the unattainable remains, 
A baffling dream to vex his human years. 

ii. 

Before a picture, fruit of his young skill, 
Stood an old painter, lost in absent thought, 
Till, as the saddening spell within him wrought, 
" Alas," he cried, " that Age cannot fulfil 
What Youth did prophesy, that yet so ill 
Performance waits on Promise ! " He had 

sought — 
Ay, and had found it, — fame by genius bought 
And high endeavor. Whispers which distil 
That subtle, sweet elixir men call praise, 
Had been his daily dole from bearded lip 
And mouth of beauty : he had dared to sip 
The siren draught. Was this the end, to gaze 
On the bright promise of his youth, as yet 
But half redeemed, and life's sun nearly set ? 



PEBAD VENTURE 45 



BLOSSOM AND FRUIT 

" He who would write heroic poems must make his whole life a 
heroic poem." — Milton. 

Ah, did we live the poems that we write, 

What heroes, saints, a wondering world would 
see! 

And how, for every poet, there would be 
A spirit clad in panoply of light, — 
Courageous, calm, divining Truth at sight, 

To follow her, come rout or victory ! 

And such there are whose lives and songs 
agree : 
Like tropic growths where flower and fruit 
unite, 

On the same bough, to sweeten all the air. 

O, poets ! let your fruited deeds be fair 
As are your blossoming words ; for, thus allied, 
Each of the other shall be justified ; 

And he is greatest who does best rehearse 

In his own life the greatness of his verse. 



PERADVENTURE 

The lightning came with fierce and fiery breath 
And swept a human soul to instant death. 



46 PER AD VENT URE 

But all the air, so fever-charged before, 
After the storm grew sweet with health once 
more. 

And men reecho that old-time refrain, 

" Thus good with evil mingles — loss with gain." 

How do we know what evil is, or good ? — 
What, loss or gain ? Ah, if we understood, 

Should we thus scan God's deep but perfect way, 
Singing, perchance, His goodness all astray — 

In harsh discordance with that praiseful hymn 
Struck from the lyres of His own cherubim ? 

Love writes the tune — and death, as life, must be 
A fitting chord in the vast harmony. 

And through the rhythmic maze I seem to hear 
This word, deferring to our human fear : — 

"Be of good heart, O ye of little faith ! 
For that which men call dying is not death. 

" What if that life ye mourn as passed away, 
Has but emerged from darkness into day ? 

" What if that other sphere it sprang to reach, 
Were fair beyond the praise of human speech ? 



TRANS M UTA TION 47 

"What if, between the two — you who remain 
And him who went, — his were the greater 
gain ? " 

TRANSMUTATION 

Rose ! from the gross earth drawing up 
Wherewith to fill your scented cup, 
Your secret tell, that our emprise 
May be as wise. 

Lilies ! that from such noisome pools 
Distil such sweets, expound your rules ; 
That we the gracious hint may share, 
And grow as fair : — 

We, formed for noblest ends, who yet 
Our high prerogative forget, 
Letting our earthliness prevent 
The purpose meant. 

For the same fair design that shows 
Supreme in lily and in rose, 
Whereby they draw from vilest springs 
Divinest things, 

Rules, too, for us, save that we spurn 
The high intent and fail to learn 
The wholesome secret, fail to see 
Our destiny. 



48 CHILD'S PLAY 

Oh, to be wise and wisely use 
Life's frets and hindrances ! to choose 
The good they yield, — nay, make the ill 
Subservient still ! — 

Wresting from loss supremest gain, 
Triumph from failure, bliss from bane, — 
As rose and lily charms unfold 
From mire and mould. 



CHILD'S PLAY 

Where thick the dandelions lie, 

Like coins of gold among the grass, 

I watch the children flitting by, 

Plucking the blossoms as they pass ; — 

Their hands as full as they can hold, 
Yet still on further conquest bent ; 

At every footstep clutching gold 

Might make a miser's heart content ! 

And watching them, I muse and muse, 
The while my thoughts outrun my theme ; 

Till Life and child's play interfuse, 
And hold me, waking, in a dream : — 

A dream whereof the burden reads 

Like this : " God made my hand but small, 



THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 49 

And earth is larger than my needs ; 
Why should I seek to grasp it all ? " 



THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 

Idling beside a mountain stream 

That plashed and broke in endless play, 
We sat and watched the dying day 

What time the sun, with level beam, 

In regal pomp sank westering, 

While round him courtier-clouds did wait, 
Ambitious for his royal state, — 

That he should die as dies a king. 

And we sat on ; the rest had grown 
Impatient of our lengthened talk, — 
" And would we join them in their walk 

And let such wizard themes alone ? " 

Nay, madcaps," I had answered, " lest 
We take our wisdom too, and so 
Your folly shame ; but do you go, 

And leave us here to dream and rest." 

We sat entranced, my friend and I, 
She with a sweet, unwonted grace, 
A charm, new kindled in her face ; 

I shrank to question whence or why. 



50 THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 

The perfect air that round us curled 

Faint bird-notes brought us, now and then, 
Some thrush, belated in the glen, 

Crooning his trouble to the world. 

Then silence fell. She raised her head, 
" I think the earth has fairer grown 
These two weeks gone ; we are alone, 

And may I tell you why ? " she said ; 

Nor paused for any answer, save 
A pressure of my clasping hand, 
A look half plea and half command, 

As I might be her lord or slave. 

" And yet not much have I to tell," 

Her words ran on, — " although it be 
As I have said, — the world to me 
Has fairer grown since it befell. 

" It happened this wise : sick and faint 
With city smoke and dust and heat, 
I wandered out where two ways meet, — 
That, leading backward to the taint 

" And grime of city walls, and this, 

Sweet with the telltale breath of woods 
Whose infinite, deep solitudes 
Gave hint of quiet ministries, — 



THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 51 

" Such tendance as the soul bespeaks, 
Grown weary in the treadmill round 
Of social cares and frets that bound 
The limits of the tiresome weeks. 

" And yet not such my mental ail, 

But, rather, Doubt, — that would not cease, 
But poisoned all my happy ease 
With subtle questions that assail 

" One's faith, so long unchallenged, — 
The faith that simple childhood keeps 
Before into its Eden creeps 
The wily whisper, ' Hath God said ? ' 

" And most this problem plagued my soul, — 
' Is Christ divided ? — for they rend, 
And fashion to ignoble end 
His seamless robe that should be whole.' 

" Thus questioning, my faith astray, 

Distraught by doubtful, differing creeds, 
And neither answering to my needs, 
What marvel that I lost my way ? 

" Who knows his danger ? I but knew 
That I was weak as any child, 
And tired of wandering in the wild, 
Still searching for some hidden clue, — 



52 THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 

" Something wherewith to answer Doubt, 
And put the dusky fiend to flight, 
That, bat-like, hates the happy light, 
And fain would put Truth's candle out. 

u The tranced woods wove their deepest spells 
That August afternoon, I ween ; 
In measured pauses, far between, 
I heard the distant city bells 

" Throb out the hours, but heeded not 
The lapse of time, so lost was I ; 
What was the charm of earth and sky 
To me ? — their marvellous sweetness, what ? 

" So lost was I ! The woodpecker 
Beat his monotonous, low drum, 
The insects drawled their lazy hum, 
The crickets chirped ; I did not stir. 

" The crickets chirped beneath my feet, 
And far away I heard the moan 
Of waves, the tender undertone 
Of tidal waters, distant, sweet. 

" The brooding Presence of the wood 
Did on me her soft finger lay, 
Till 'neath the touch my soul gave way 
And lapsed into a calmer mood. 



THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 53 

" ' O rest ! O peace ! here let me sit 

And dream my life away ! ' I cried ; 
' But wherefore ? ' straight a voice replied. 
' Life was not given to squander it.' 

" With that, I started up, intent 

On flight ; but truly need was none, 
So gracious was the manly tone, 
So kind the look that on me bent. 

" And, once assured, I could recall 

To whom the kindly voice belonged ; 
For I had heard it where the thronged 
Charmed people listened in the hall 

" To caclenced measures fitly wed 
To looks that were all eloquence, 
And scarcely needed the pretence 
Of speech, to be interpreted. 

" So, yielding without more ado 

To what I deemed a happy chance, 
I took my cue from circumstance 
And answered lightly, ' Even so ; 

" ' And yet, sir, you, methinks, of all, 

More gracious judgment should allow. 
Men name you Dreamer ; read me now 
The riddle your own lips let fall : — 



54 THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT' 

" ' Are dreams the chaff that idlers grow? 
And do they squander life who dream ? 
Nay ; who but looks on you must deem 
The verdict false, and answer, " No." 

" ' But for myself I cannot tell, 

My dreams are little worth, in truth, 
And mock me with a bitter ruth 
When I do wake and break the spell.' 

" I paused, — alarmed that I had dared 
So much, and fearing he might take 
My candor wrong and might not make 
Excuse for thoughts so lightly shared. 

" ' Ah, could he look within,' I sighed, 
' And see the trouble in my breast, 
The heavy thoughts that will not rest, 
The doubts, the void unsatisfied ! ' 

" And still the happy insects sang 

Above my head, and still the whir 
Of crickets in the grass astir 
Beneath my feet melodious rang ; 

" And still the muflled undertone 
Of tidal waters smote the ear ; 
But I was deaf. I did not hear 
Or hum or chirp or deep sea-moan. 



THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 55 

" He read my trouble in my face, 
And deftly, as a father might, 
Interpreted the cause aright, — 
Or so I guessed, — though for a space, 

" He talked of other things, — the skies, 

The changing clouds, blind Nature's laws, 
Obedient to the primal Cause, 
The first great Soul that underlies 

" And governs all : anon he spoke 

On themes less alien, — how God's plan 
All culminated in the man 
Christ Jesus ; then my soul awoke ! 

" < What think you of the Christ ? ' I said, 
My courage rising with my need ; 
1 I 've searched for Him in sect and creed, 
And find Him not alive, but dead. 

" i And yet I clasp this shadow dim, 
This dead Christ, to my living soul, 
Still asking, Who for me shall roll 
The stone away that covers Him ? 

u i He is arisen, the priests reply, 

Then straight dispute above the sign, — 
The sacramental bread and wine, 
Till, Your Christ is not God's ! I cry. 



56 THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 

" * And so He is not what I need : 

The Christ I seek must come to me, 
(Or I to Him, whiche'er it be), 
Unclaimed of any wrangling creed. 

" * Sweeter than psalm or liturgy 
The music of His solemn voice, 
If one could hear it for the noise 
Of all the sects that disagree, — 

" ' The carping wisdom of the schools, — 
" Lo, Christ is here ! lo, Christ is there ! " 

Ye doubts that drive me to despair, 
'T was there ye learned your cunning rules J 

" ' For oh, the cruel doubts that jeer 
And mock at my bewildered quest ! 
The vague misgivings unexpressed ! 
The echoed taunt, — " Lo, there ! lo, here ! " 

" * Till I am fain to cry, " Give o'er ; 
There is no Christ ; or, if there be, 
I doubt there is a Christ for me : 
I will not seek Him any more ! ' " 

" I looked up, passion-flushed ; but he 

Stood grave, yet kind, — as though reproof 
Were, for the moment, kept aloof 
By stronger force of sympathy. 



TEE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 57 

" i Poor child ! ' he answered, ' not alone 
You walk, encompassed by this cloud ; 
But where one speaks his doubt aloud, 
A thousand die and make no moan. 

" 6 And yet not blameless in His sight, 

His pure and searching sight, you stand, 
Whose fan is in His purging hand, 
And who will judge all hearts aright. 

" 6 Think you the flaws of creed and sect 
Will plead for you when He shall roll 
The curtain from your separate soul, 
And bid you look on His Elect, 

" ' His Well-Beloved, whom you slew 
With cruel doubts because, forsooth, 
He showed unsightly and uncouth, 
For the poor lens you viewed Him through ? 

u ' Beware ! who stumbles on this stone 
Is bruised ; but ground to powder he 
On whom it falls ! No empty plea 
Will aught avail before His throne.' 

" A hoarse wind smote the forest boughs, 
That bent and shrieked : for all reply 
I pointed to the threatening sky ; — 
' And you are far from any house,' 



58 THE SOLVENT OF DOUBT 

" He said, * and may I lead you hence ? 

The storm is gathering. Hasten ! come ! ' 
And like a child he led me home, 
Unwitting of the finer sense, 

" The deeper meaning that my soul 

Gave to his words, ' hasten ! come ! ' 
And how indeed he led me home, 
Doubt-cured, and ransomed, and made whole. 

" O Christ of God ! " — and reverently 

She raised her eyes, — " thou art the Way ! 
Sects differ, creeds may lead astray ; 
Blest is the man who follows thee." 

She ceased. The setting sun, alight, 
Fell on her golden curls and shed 
A sudden glory round her head ; 

I looked, and read the symbol right, 

And thought, " O beautified and crowned ! 

O friend, how fair, how blest thou art! 

Who follows Christ with single heart 
All good in heaven and earth has found." 

A laugh, a gay tone on the breeze ! 

The merry loiterers had returned ; 

Our hearts within our bosoms burned, 
We could not cope with sounds like these. 



THOUGHT AND SPEECH 59 

" 'T is late, and let us go," I said, 

And led the way home through the dew, 
She following ; — though of the two, 
She was the leader, I the led. 



THOUGHT AND SPEECH 

There came to me a thought 
By winged Fancy brought, 
Subtle as flame ; of light and sweetness wrought. 

With costly pains and care, 
I sought in words as rare, 
To clasp and hold it : it exhaled in air 

And vanished, — all the grace, 
The gleam ; and in its place, 
A cold abstraction stared me in the face. 

" thought forever fled ! " 
Then to myself I said ; 
O sweetness lost ! O fine aroma shed ! " 

" Not so," a voice replied ; 
" Thought lives and shall abide : 
Only to utter it has been denied." 



60 THE COST 



THE COST 

Eagle, bruised in your dizzy flight, 
Soaring yon jagged crests among ; 

Poet-heart, on your lonely height, 

Wounded, scaling the peaks of Wrong, — 

A bleeding bosom were poor requite 
For an eagle's wing and a poet's song ! 



WHO KNOWS 

A child lay sleeping in the rosy dawn, 
And sleeping, dreamed. What fancies crossed 

his brain 
We know not : now a shadow, as of pain, 
Clouded his tranquil features, and anon 
A smile lay beautiful his face upon ; 
The household stirred around him, but in vain 
The noisy prattle of the household train 

To break the spell ; outside, upon the lawn, 
The birds sang shrilly, and the clarion cocks 
Answered with lusty cheer ; but all unheard 
By him or crow of cock or song of bird. 

Who knows but life be such: a dream that locks 
Our senses to the Real about us rife ! 
If sleep can thus enthrall us, may not lif e ? 



COMPENSATION 61 



AN OPEN SECRET 

Would the lark sing the sweeter if he knew 
A thousand hearts hung breathless on his lay ? 
And if " How fair ! " the rose could hear us 
say, 
Would she, her primal fairness to outdo, 
Take on a richer scent, a lovelier hue ? 

Who knows or cares to answer yea or nay ? 
O tuneful lark ! sail, singing, on your way, 
Brimmed with excess of ecstasy ; and you, 
Sweet rose ! renew with every perfect June 
Your perfect blossoming ! Still Nature-wise, 
Sing, bloom, because ye must, and not for 
praise. 
If only we, who covet the fair boon 

Of well-earned fame, and wonder where it lies, 
Would read the secret in your simple ways ! 



COMPENSATION 

Not in each shell the diver brings to air 
Is found the priceless pearl, but only where 
Mangled, and torn, and bruised well-nigh to 

death, 
The wounded oyster draws its laboring breath. 
Oh, tried and suffering soul ! gauge here your gain ; 
The pearl of patience is the fruit of pain. 



62 BE LIKE THE SUN 



BE LIKE THE SUN 

Be like the sun, that pours its ray 
To glad and glorify the day. 

Be like the moon, that sheds its light 
To bless and beautify the night. 

Be like the stars, that sparkle on, 
Although the sun and moon be gone. 

Be like the skies, that steadfast are, 
Though absent sun and moon and star. 



WAITING 

Be patient : under the patient sun 
The sweet fruits ripen, one by one. 

Be patient : steadily, sand by sand, 

The green earth grew in God's great hand. 

Be patient : where now the oak is found, 
Once slept an acorn underground. 

Slowly the fruit swings ripe in the sun •, 
Slowly God's work on earth is done. 



THE FOUR MOTTOES 63 

Slow climbs the oak from the acorn's shell ; 
Slower climbs justice from its dark cell. 

Slowly the great earth grew and grew ; 
Slower the growth of the good and true : 

Slower but surer ; the stoutest oak 

Falls 'neath the woodman's sturdy stroke. 

Fruits that mellowest swing and sway 
Ripen at length to a slow decay ; 

And this great, green earth, from pole to pole, 
Shall shrivel and scorch like a burning scroll ; 

But truth and justice shall stand for aye, 
Though the heavens and earth should pass away. 

Let us be patient, and work and wait ; 
Good is omnipotent, God is great. 

Let us be patient with perfect trust ; 
Truth is eternal and God is just. 



THE FOUR MOTTOES 

" Look up and not down ! " — do you mind how 
the tree-top 
Rejoices in sunshine denied to its root ? 



64 THE FOUR MOTTOES 

And hear how the lark, gazing skyward, is 
flooding 
All earth with its song, while the ground-bird is 
mute? 

" Look out and not in ! " — see the sap rushing 
outward 

In leaf, bud, and blossom ; all winter it lay- 
Imprisoned, while earth wore a white desolation ; 

Now Nature is glad with the beauty of May. 

" Look forward, not back ! " — 'T is the chant of 
creation, 
The chime of the seasons as onward they roll ; 
*T is the pulse of the world, 't is the hope of the 
ages, — 
This voice of the Lord in the depths of the 
soul ! 

" Lend a hand ! " — like the sun, that turns 
night into morning, 
The moon, that guides storm-driven sailors to 
land : — 
Ah, life were worth living with this for its 
watchword — 
" Look up, out, and forward, and each lend a 
hand ! " 



A TALE OF TWO BUCKETS 65 



LE ROI EST MORT! VIVE LE ROI! 

" The king is dead ! Long live the king ! " One 
breath 
For knell and coronation : that is brave ! 
Why should we linger, mourning, at the grave 
Of an old creed outgrown, when some "God 

saith " 
Is calling us to a diviner faith ? 

Or stay, in sorrow's penitential wave 
The ashes of some darling sin to lave, 
Or selfish passion that has died the death ? 
Nay, nay, — the king is dead ! long live the 
king! 
The king of loftier trust and larger hope 
And better purposes and purer aims. 
Ring, O my soul, glad acclamations ring 
From all your happy towers, till cope to cope 
" Long live the king ! long live the king ! " 
proclaims. 



A TALE OF TWO BUCKETS 

Two buckets in an ancient well 
got talking once together, 

And after sundry wise remarks, — 
no doubt about the weather, — 



66 AN INCIDENT 

" Look here," quoth one, " this life we lead 

I don't exactly like ; 
Upon my word, I 'm half inclined 

to venture on a strike ; 
For, do you mind ? however full 

we both come up the well, 
We go down empty, — always shall, 

for aught that I can tell." 

"That 's true," the other said; "but then, 

the way it looks to me, — 
However empty we go down, 

we come up full, you see." 
Wise little bucket ! If we each 

would look at life that way, 
Would dwarf its ills and magnify 

its blessings, day by day, 
The world would be a happier place, 

since we should all decide 
Only the buckets full to count, 

and let the empty slide. 



AN INCIDENT 

Sarah paused anear the window, 
Gathered up her baby form, 

And with pleased, incredulous wonder, 
Gazed upon the wintry storm. 



AN INCIDENT 67 

Slowly fell the glittering snowflakes, 
One by one, like blossoms fair, 

Rifled from some bower of roses 
By the covetous summer air ; 

Nearer drew the child, her eyes 

Dilating with a large surprise. 

; Flowers ! " at length she murmurs softly, 

Upward gazing all the while, 
Till the fancy warms her features 

With a bright exulting smile. 
Bravo ! she has solved the problem 

To her own sweet faith, at least, 
And she hugs the dear illusion 

Till the glittering show has ceased ; 
Seeing only in the storm 
Summer blossoms fresh and warm ! 

Darling, show my heart the lesson ; 

When life's dreary tempests rise, 
Teach me how to stand and face them 

With thy hopeful, happy eyes ! 
In each trial well surmounted 

Finding germs of future bliss, 
Till I reach that happier dwelling 

Where, in looking back on this, 
I shall see life's stormiest hours 
Wove for me but sweetest flowers ! 



68 THE DAME AND THE CRITIC 

THE DAME AND THE CRITIC 

[Versified from Hans Christian Andersen's Tale, "Some- 
thing."] 

Two souls, just freed from mortal guise, 
Knelt at the gates of Paradise ; 
He, arrogant and bold of mien, 
She, meek yet fearless and serene, 
And as the time seemed long to wait 
Before the opening of the gate, 
They fell to talking. 

" Dame," quoth he, 
" While good St. Peter finds the key, 
Pray tell me, if it 's no offence, 
Your name, and how you came, and whence ; 
What you accomplished worthily." 
(A pedant and a critic he, 
More skilled to censure than to praise, 
The man had passed his mortal days 
In slothful ease, his caustic pen 
Belaboring better, busier men.) 

" I am old Margaret," she replied ; 
" My home and hut the sea beside : 
I 've lived a quiet, simple life, 
By crime unsoiled, unvexed by strife ; 
But as for aught that I have been, 
Or done, these blessed gates to win, 
I make no plea." 

" But tell me now," 



THE DAME AND THE CRITIC 69 

The critic questioned, " why and how 
You left the world." 

" I scarce can tell," 
She answered ; " what at last befell 
Seems all so strange ! I can recall 
But this : beyond the great sea-wall, 
Built out to keep the tide at bay, 
The townsfolk forth had gone to play 
On pleasant lutes, and dance and feast, 
Upon the ice : the crowd increased 
With every movement. From my bed 
(For I was feeble, sick, and old, 
Nay, helpless, if the truth were told) 
I saw the moon rise, round and red, 
And marked along the marge a cloud, 
Slow-spreading, white as any shroud ; 
And, as I looked, its centre grew 
Black, black as ink. Ah, then I knew, 
For I had seen the sign before, 
In my long life beside the shore, — 
Had seen the fearful omen twice, 
And knew the errand that it bore 
To the doomed people on the ice. 

" I knew that tempest, flood and wreck 
Were waiting on its awful beck ; 
That ere an hour should pass, the deep 
Its bonds would break and overleap 
The wall in floods ; was it too late 
To save my people from their fate ? 



70 THE DAME AND THE CRITIC 

Alas, what hand, unless 't were mine, 
Could warn them, knowing not the sign ? 
'Dear Lord, in mercy give me power 
To save them in this fearful hour,' 
I cried in sorest agony : 
He heard, He heard and answered me. 
Strength came to me in every limb, 
My weakness seemed a sick-bed whim ; 
I rose, I ran, I reached the door, 
I rent the air with frantic cries, — 
1 Good friends, good neighbors ! I implore ! 
Yon cloud, yon cloud ! make for the shore ! 
In vain ; no questions, no replies 
Came back to me ; my voice was drowned 
Amid the feasting and the sound 
Of lute and viol. Once again 
Twice, thrice, I called, — in vain, in vain ! 

" But suddenly a daring thought, 
A purpose ! it was heaven that wrought 
And sent it me : could I but fire 
My hut, my home, and thus the dire 
Calamity forestall ! I knew 
The people were too good and true 
To guess what plight were mine nor com© 
Quick to the rescue : so, with numb 
And trembling hands, I lit the straw 
That filled my frugal bed ; I saw, — 

joy, — I saw the red flames rise, 

1 heard the people's sudden cries, 



THE DAME AND THE CRITIC 71 

And, groping blindly to the door, 
Beheld them hurrying to the shore, 
Beheld them pass the great sea-wall, 
And knew that I had saved them all ! 

" Then came a rushing, deafening sound, 
A crash, as if the solid ground 
Were breaking up ; then chaos, night : 
I know no more. The shock, the fright 
Were too much for a helpless thing 
Like me, and so death's pitying wing 
Hovered above and brought me here, 
To find a home of light and cheer 
In place of that I lost below ; 
Or so I trust. But this I know, 
'T is all of grace, if it be so." 

With that the gates were opened wide, 
And straight an angel to her side 
Swift glided, with a glad intent 
To lead her in. As on they went, 
A straw, which had escaped the fire 
When first she lit her funeral pyre, 
Fell at her feet ; and while the two 
Looked down upon it, lo, it grew 
Into a spray of purest gold, 
With leaves and blossoms manifold ! 
" Fair symbol of a good deed wrought ! " 
The angel cried, " and hast thou aught, 
critic, aught like this to show 



72 THE DAME AND TEE CRITIC 

In proof of service down below ? 

Then hear thy doom." 

The Dame's kind soul 

Was moved to pity : " Give him dole 

Of the large grace vouchsafed to me," 

She pleaded of the angel ; " see, 

His brother wrought me, at my need, 

Bricks for my hut : shall not this deed 

Atone ? " 

" You hear," the angel cried, 
" Another's work must be applied 

To cover your life-lack ! not so ; 

And yet a respite I bestow : 

Remain outside ; a day of grace 

Is granted you ; if in this place, 

Where yet repentance may avail, 

You see your folly and bewail 

Your error, and through earnest quest, 

Accomplish something, — not the best, 

But something, — it may be that you, 

Saved as by fire, shall enter too, 

And find within this blissful gate 

A home." 

The critic heard his fate : 
" That little speech I could have wrought 

Much more effectively," he thought, 

But from expressing it refrained ; 

And that, for him, was something gained. 



A POEM OF NATURE 73 



A POEM OF NATURE 

The world is growing old, — so sages say 
And poets sing ; but look abroad to-day : 
How like a monarch, throned and plenty -crowned, 
Our regal earth ! her ruddy temples bound 
With chaplets of bright flowers, and at her feet 
Her waving harvests and her fruitage sweet. 
Here are no signs of eld or dull decay, 
Despite what poets sing and sages say. 

Man ripens and decays ; his glorious powers 
Dim 'neath the shade of his declining hours ; 
Age dulls his eye, and ere his knell is rung, 
Palsies the cunning of his glowing tongue. 
Man, man decays, but earth is ever young ! 

Dear mother-earth ! as fresh as when at first 
In Eden's garden her young life was nursed ; — 
Renewed each year, as often as the spring 
Sets all the trees astir with blossoming, 
And witches into music every stream 
Beneath the magic of her April gleam ! 
See how the generous sap from her own heart 
Pours without stint, and strengthens every part 
Of her young offspring; trees and shrubs and 

flowers 
Share in her fulness and partake her powers. 
She paints her roses, and with equal care 
Flushes with carmine nectarine and pear ; 



74 A POEM OF NATURE 

She hangs her grapes out, sweet and purple-dyed, 
Nor slights the grass green-growing far and wide ; 
Her loving hands with equal skill adorn 
The crimson tulip and the tassclled corn. 
No partial step-dame she, our mother-earth ! 
She counts naught alien nor of stranger birth ; 
Her broad breast cradles all her love brings forth, 
Nor weighs her favors by the claimant's worth. 

A lesson here for us, O gentle friends ! 
Though, in good sooth, whoe'er obedient lends 
A listening ear in nature's patient school 
Will shape his life by many a wholesome rule 
Not chronicled in books, — and therefore we, 
Tillers of earth, who all her secrets see 
As well as hear, what patterns we should be ! 

But this by way of prelude to a strain 
Which, though but rudely sung, yet hopes to gain 
Your ears attentive, — though we all agree 
The theme 's but hackneyed, — nathless, come 

with me 
Down this rude lane, ablaze with goldenrod 
And fresh with fragrance from the upturned sod, 
To where yon farmhouse lifts its modest head, 
By peace, content and health inhabited. 
The tranquil kine, reposing in the grass, 
Turn dreamy eyes upon us as we pass ; 
The shy sheep gaze askance, and chanticleer 
Disturbs the silence with a lusty cheer 
From the far barn-yard: sights and sounds are 
these 



A POEM OF NATURE 75 

To make the saddest cheerful and at ease. 
How full the quiet spot of sweet perfumes, 
Aromas of fresh grass and clover-blooms ! 
How like a Sabbath stillness, or like prayer, 
The cloistered calm of this sequestered air ! 

Anon the swinging scythe perchance is heard ; 
Anon the sacred, Sabbath calm is stirred 
By sounding flail or woodman's axe anear, 
Reechoing through the forest sharp and clear : 
The dim old forest, where the children go 
A-nutting when the leaves are all aglow 
Beneath the frost-king's touch. Such merry routs 
The little people tell of thereabouts ! 
And then the huskings and the apple-bees, 
The pleasant picnics underneath the trees, — 
What city belle can boast such joys as these ? 

But not outside the modest farmhouse dwells 
Its sweetest charm ; that quiet roof-tree tells 
Of love and trust beneath its humble dome, 
And all that glads and sanctifies a home. 
Here the good housewife plies her cheerful tasks 
From morn to eve, nor gift nor guerdon asks 
Save the sweet payment of her husband's smile, 
And God's dear love, and health and strength the 

while. 
Her rosy daughters, not too fine to soil 
Their pretty fingers with the marks of toil, 
With cheerful patience sew the lengthened seam, 
Prepare the meal or churn the yellow cream, 
Or lead the toddling baby that essays 



76 A POEM OF NATURE 

Unequal steps about the household ways, 
Or hasten to the door when daylight fails 
To unburden " father " of his brimming pails. 
Thrice happy man, thrice happy father he ! 
His smoking supper ready, on his knee 
The crowing baby, and around his board 
Health and content, he well may thank the Lord ! 

Life has its trials, whatsoe'er our lot ; 
But if there be, on God's dear earth, one spot 
Crowned more than others with his favors lent, 
'T is such a home as this : all sweet content, 
All peaceful, heavenly influences meet 
To purify, enrich and make it sweet. 
Within, without, around it and above, 
Good thoughts, like blessed angels, rove and rove. 
The very cattle, knee-deep in the brooks, 
Have lessons for us in their patient looks ; 
The silent hills, slow-stretching far away, 
The shady hollows with the lambs at play 
In their cool bosoms, the rejoicing rills, 
The sobbing of the lonely whip-poor-wills, 
The misty glories of the purpling morn, 
The night's deep splendor when the stars are 

born, 
The corn up-springing 'neath the sun and rain, 
The ripening fruitage and the nodding grain, 
The changing seasons as they come and go, 
Winter the pilgrim, with his coif of snow, 
Spring the sweet charmer, summer all ablaze 
'Neath the rich dower of her meridian days, 



NATURE AND POET 77 

And, best of all, glad autumn blithe and sweet, 

Laying her wealth uncounted at our feet ! — 

Who, living out his peaceful life among 

Scenes such as these, more eloquent than tongue 

Of priest or prelate, who, if he be wise 

To learn the lessons set before his eyes, 

But shall imbibe the wisdom they impart, 

And win the blessing of the " pure in heart ! " — 

Such as "see God," — see Him not only there, 

In His dear, far-off heaven, but everywhere : 

In the bright glancing of the robin's wing, 

As in a planet's steady, ceaseless swing ; 

In the small mercies of the passing years, 

As in the forces which control the spheres ; 

In little household trials, wisely sent, 

As in the pangs which rend a continent ; 

In every strange vicissitude of earth, 

In smiling plenty and in direful dearth ; 

See Him in all His gracious hand has sent 

Of joy and sorrow mercifully blent, 

And seeing, love, and loving, be content ! 

NATURE AND POET 

No poet ever wholly caught 

Or fully uttered Nature's thought : 

The stream flows sweeter than the lay 

Sung in its praise ; the rosy day 

Is fairer than was ever told 

By bard sublime or minstrel bold. 



78 NATURE AND POET 

The truest note is his who sings 
The closest to the heart of things, 
Though conscious, all the while, how far 
Away his nearest ventures are, — 
That earth and air and sea and sky 
Are rhythmic with a harmony 
Whose core of sweetness human speech, 
Probe as it may, can never reach. 

Nature's great anthem, all unsung 
Save by herself ! Could mortal tongue 
But voice these wordless symphonies 
And sound her music as it is ! 
Challenge the silence held so long 
And syllable in perfect song 
Her deeper wonders, larger moods, — 
The splendor of her autumn woods, 
The regal blossoming of dawn, 
Night with its crown of silence on ! 
Chant the full glory of a star 
And tell how fair the Pleiads are ! 
Hymn the informing life which glows 
In the red bosom of the rose, 
And makes the listening daisy sweet 
With wide-eyed wonder at our feet ! 
Translate — what yet no human ear 
To finest issues tuned can hear — 
The elfin songs the blossoms sing, 
Chimes that the merry bluebells ring, 
The daffodilly's roundelay, 



NATURE AND POET 79 

And what the happy kingcups say ! 
Make audible, by some sweet art, 
The secret at the lily's heart ! 
Voice, in swift changes manifold, 
The rainbow's sheen, the sunset's gold, 
Moonrise upon the lonely seas, 
The breath of morn on upland leas, 
June's freshness, spring's prophetic stir, 
The countless signs that herald her, 
The majesty of hills, the rush 
Of rivers, midnight's awful hush ! 

Yet faint not, poet-heart, nor miss 

Thy birthright crown because of this ! 

Nature no miser is, to hold 

And hide her wealth, as men do gold ; 

Nor yet a spendthrift, reaching out 

An easy alms to every lout 

Presuming on her grace. She gives 

To none her high prerogatives ; 

Keeps her sealed orders, signed of old, 

Inviolate within her hold ; 

Yet, pitiful of human need, 

She bends to us with answering meed 

Of sympathy, — where most besought, 

Bestowing most, and grudging naught 

That mortal fantasy can reach 

And comprehend in mortal speech. 

Her awful pageants go and come, 

And leave thee as they found thee, — dumb ; 



80 NATURE AND POET 

Her sweet surprises throng thy way 
And dare thy worthiest essay 
To give them voice ; the more pursued 
The more they mock thee and elude. 
What then ? In ways unnumbered still, 
She summons all thy human skill, 
By signs which thou canst understand, 
To grasp her purpose large and grand, 
And make thyself, through guest of her, 
Her loyal, true interpreter. 

For Nature aye doth condescend 

To such ; her poet is her friend : 

She gives him insight, lends him wings, 

And bids him soar the while he sings ; 

Purges his soul of its old ache, — 

The greed of fame for fame's own sake, — 

Till, haply, in its place, he find 

A burning zeal to serve his kind : 

His song she witches with her tone 

Till half it seems her very own : 

By deeper than Castalian founts 

She leads him, and to fairer mounts 

Than fair Parnassus ; bids him drink, 

Unsated, at the purer brink 

Of her pure lips, and walk abreast 

With Truth upon her mountain crest. 



JAN VARY- FEBR UAR Y 81 



JANUARY 

Good-day, new world ! Like him of Genoa, 
We glad adventurers kneel and kiss the strand 
Of our emprise, — this new-discovered land 
Of time, — and cry, " Good-day, new world ! good 

day!" 
Onward, brave hearts ! keep doubt and fear at 
bay! 
These ambushed ills which lurk on every hand 
Are but allies to lead us into grand 
Possession of ourselves, and of the way. 

Oh year ! new year ! World yet untried and 
strange ! 
For him who thus adventures, all good things 
You hold in store ; for he it is who brings 

Hope to the front, and courage: him, no 
change 
Shall harm or weaken, nor shall any chance 
Rob him of his divine inheritance. 



FEBRUARY 

Winter at length slow-waning to its close, 
Nature declares her penance well-nigh done ; 
And sends, in" challenge to the laggard sun, 
Fair, truant days, balmy and soft as those 
May scatters : then mock-penitent she grows, 



82 MARCH 

Owns the sad cheat, — and jubilant, like one 

Who knows no master, apes, for very fun, 
Her old-time rigors, piling deep her snows 

As in midwinter. Ah, a wayward thing 
Is Nature ! Something of her April mood 
Disturbs — nay, warms and quickens all her 
blood ; 

And whether summer, winter, autumn, spring, 
Holds her in leash, she breaks away at will, — 
Supreme for all her bonds, and regnant still ! 

MARCH 

Month of the warlike name and warring blast, 
Welcome! since both belie thee. Thou dost 

bring 
Sealed orders with thee from the gentle spring, 

And, in thy noisy coming, we forecast 

Her milder advent. Ay, we know thou hast 
A loyal heart, despite the stormy ring 
Of thy rude war-cry ! Late, a bluebird's wing 

Athwart thy clouded path unchallenged passed ; 
But yesterday, arbutus buds I spied, 

Covered with snow for leaves, — sweet babes 
o' the wood ! — 

And noted, peeping up in bravest mood, 

Green, growing things that would no longer 
hide : 

And while thy shrillest winds piped overhead, 

" Ah, spring is coming ! " to myself I said. 



APRIL — MAY 83 



APRIL 

Summer's forerunner ! See, she sendeth thee 

To search the land and make it soft with show- 
ers 

And sun and dew, and fit it for her flowers. 
Haste, then, sweet month, — ply all thy witchery 
To do her bidding : frozen brooks set free 

"With softest blowing winds ; from southern 
bowers 

Call the blithe robin ; to essay its powers 
Of ruddy bloom, tease the red maple tree 

Till it make answer ; coax with violets, 
And shame with life astir beneath her snow, 
The cold, reluctant earth, that she may grow 

Right motherly, and mindful of her pets, — 
And, quick with May, at length yield richest 

boon, 
The red, red roses, and the pinks of June. 



MAY 

I saw a child, once, that had lost its way 

In a great city : ah, dear heaven, such eyes ! — 
A far-off look in them, as if the skies 

Her birthplace were. So looks to me the May. 

April is winsome, June is glad and gay ; 

May glides betwixt them in such wondering 
wise, 



84 JUNE 

Lovely as dropped from some fair Paradise, 
And knowing, all the while, herself astray. 

Or is the fault with us ? Nay, call it not 
A fault, but a sweet trouble ! Is it we, — 
Catching some glimpse of our own destiny 

In May's renewing touch, some yearning 
thought 
Of heaven, beneath her resurrecting hand, — 
We who are aliens, lost in a strange land ? 



JUNE 

Fair month of roses! Who would sing her 
praise, 
One says, should come direct from banqueting 
On honey from Hymettus, that he bring 

Fit flavor to the strain his lip essays. 

As if, around these exquisite, rare days 

Of richest June, such sweetness did not cling, 
For him who fain her loveliness would sing, 

As Hybla or Hymettus scarce could raise, 
With all their storied bees ! 

And yet, in vain, 

Poet, your verse ! Extol her as you will, 

One perfect rose her praises shall distil 

More than all song, though Sappho lead the 
strain. 

Forbear then ; since, for any tribute fit, 

Her own rare lips alone can utter it ! 



JULY — AUGUST 85 



JULY 

Set like a central ruby on the brow 
Of summer, but a fiery month thou art, 
July ! and yet we hail thee. Thou hast part 
In Nature's chivalry : knight-errant thou, — 
Hot, fierce, impetuous ; on thy lips a vow 
To do thy great devoirs with loyal heart, 
Thy lance the sunbeam, laid in rest to thwart 
All alien forces. Ah, right brave, I trow, 

The deeds that we shall hear of ! In the corn 
Already there are whisperings ; harvest days 
Shall bring full tidings, heralding thy praise, 

And the ripe year, winding his jocund horn, 
Shall boast thy brave exploits with lusty breath 
And own thee knightly even unto death. 



AUGUST 

We read of high-born dames, sick of life's glare, 
Who in dim cloisters fain would end their days, 
Exchanging pomp for pious prayer and praise : 

Summer, is such thy role, that thou dost wear 

This nun-like torpor in thine altered air ? 

We miss the sweet June freshness, and the 

ways 
Of happy, hot July : this August haze 

Is like a veil shrouding thy features fair ; 



86 SEPTEMBER 

This drowsy stillness is a convent-calm, 
Oppressing us like sadness. Oh, sweet nun, 
Is it for penance ? What deed hast thou done, 

That happy mirth should change to sob and 
psalm, 
And telling of thy beads against the pane 
In the low patter of this August rain ? 



SEPTEMBER 

The days once more their dainty fare outspread ; 

For Nature, roused from dreams, and making 
good, 

At length, the promise of her larger mood, 
No longer doles us out her wine and bread 
In scanty sort, — but pours for us, instead, 

Her spicy, sweet September ! Now the blood 

Of high resolve begins again to flood 
Our nerveless souls, and life wakes, duty-wed. 

Nature, wise steward, thou art justified ! 
For thou hast kept the good wine until now, 
Against this tardy bridal, this late vow 

Pledging our days to toil while days abide : — 
Where are the fallow fields, that we may sow 
And reap the latter harvest, ere we go ? 



CTOBER — NO V EMBER 87 



OCTOBER 

Of all the twelve, bright month ! art thou the one 
Best loved of Nature, that, with partial care, 
She bids her subtle elements prepare 
This robe of beauty for her favorite son, — 
This coat of many colors, deftly spun 

From tissues of the rainbow, from the rare, 
Brave hues of sunset when the day dies fair, 
From misty, purple dawnings, ere begun 

Is the swift, beautiful coming of the light ? 
O princely garniture ! Well may the rest 
(In dun, or ermine, or soft greenness drest), 

Beholding thee thus royally bedight, 
Envy thy state, thou favorite of the year, 
Darling of Nature, month without a peer ! 



NOVEMBER 

Like a late watcher, tired and sleep-inclined, 
Yet patient at her post and smiling still, 
The year keeps vigil. Look you where you will, 

In all her wide domain you shall not find 

Her hand has lost its cunning : still the wind 
Plays its soft descants ; still each rippling rill 
Goes singing seaward ; while, on every hill, 

The sun pours benediction bland and kind 
As blest the summer ; still the crickets hide 



88 DECEMBER 

In the warm grass, — and ever and anon, 

A bee reels by, store-laden from the lawn 

Where bloom late flowers, alert and open- 
eyed: 

" How fair," they sigh with me, " and oh, how 
dear, 

This lingering sweetness of the dying year ! " 



DECEMBER 

Dear month that gave us Christ ! Ring sweet, 
ring strong, 
O bells of Christmas! Quickened by your 

chime, 
Our eager wishes, like swift birds that climb 
Far-reaching heights, soar up to catch the song 
The wondering shepherds heard. Will it be long, 
Before the sweetness of that strain sublime 
Shall set itself to earth ? — poor, rugged rhyme 
To mate such music ! 

Shepherd-souls ! that throng 
Beneath the starry silence, keeping guard, 
Tending your patient hopes, like flocks by night, 
Have ye not, sometimes, from yon heavenly 
height, 
Caught faintest whispers of that advent-word 
Heralding Christ once more, "Peace and good 

will, 
Peace upon earth ? " O shepherds, keep watch still. 



SPRING 89 



SPRING 



Apple blossoms in the orchard, 

Singing birds on every tree ; 
Grass a-growing in the meadows 

Just as green as green can be ; 

Violets in shady places, — 

Sweetest flowers were ever seen ! 

Hosts of starry dandelions, — 

" Drops of gold among the green ! " 

Pale arbutus, fairy wind-flowers, 

Innocents in smiling flocks ; 
Coolest ferns within the hollows, 

Columbines among the rocks ; 

Dripping streams, delicious mosses, 

Tassels on the maple trees ; 
Drowsy insects, humming, humming ; 

Golden butterflies, and bees ; 

Daffodils in garden borders, 

Fiery tulips dashed with dew ; 
Crocus flowers ; and, through the greenness, 

Snow-drops looking out at you ! 



90 IN MAY 



IN MAY 



The spring is here ; the orchard-blooms 
Like snow-flakes whiten all the air : 

I smell the delicate perfumes 
Of apricot and pear. 

I wander down the gravelled slopes, 
And take the garden path that leads 

Where, in their blind assurance, gropes 
My buried store of seeds. 

Ah, Nature fails me not ! she keeps 
Her promise sacred as of old ; 

See where its glad fulfilment peeps 
Up through the softened mould ; 

Pansies and pinks and daffodils, 
A brave array of bursting green ; 

Prophetic of the bloom that fills 
The summer days with sheen. 

A handful of unsightly seed, 

Faith's offering, in faith I brought, 

And lo, in answer to the deed, 
A miracle is wrought ! 

And soon the summer's wizard hours 
Shall crown the witchery of spring, 



IN MAY 91 

And I shall walk among my flowers 
As happy as a king. 

Nature, great conjurer ! I kneel 

Abashed and awed before her shrine : 

Would some weird whisper might reveal 
And make her secret mine ! 

Yet this we know, if only this : 

She follows on where we essay 
A smoother path ; small marvel 't is 

That we do go astray. 

She follows on through night and noon : 
Makes odds, that else would work her ill, 

Her slaves ; she yokes the sun and moon 
To her imperious will ! 

Wrests blessing from the clouds and heat, 

Makes vilest offal tribute pay ; 
And ever, from what seems defeat, 

Plucks victory away. 

And when shall come her autumn days, 
And she among her fruits and flowers 

Stands justified, how bright her bays 
Shall be, compared with ours ! 

Ah, did we copy nature's ways, 

Her consummations we might share ; 



92 A BAY IN SUMMER 

What songs of triumph we should raise ! 
What palms of victory bear ! 



A DAY IN SUMMER 

Birds are singing through the branches, 

On this leafy summer day ; 
Thoughts are singing through my spirit, 

Radiant and glad as they. 

I am thinking, as I ramble, 

Of the olden, olden times 
When I wandered through the meadows, 

Weaving happy childish rhymes. 

Just such sunny skies bent o'er me 
As are bending o'er me now ; 

Just such sweet love-making breezes 
Kissed and kissed me, cheek and brow. 

Now the same deep spell comes o'er me, 
With the breath of this sweet day, 

Like a fresh, serene baptism 
From the meadows far away. 

And my heart is glad and happy 
With the pure joy of a child ; 

Glad because the Father sends it 
Thoughts so calm and undefiled. 



IN MIDSUMMER 93 

Gladder yet that still it trembles 

To the music of the rhymes 
That I wove among the meadows 

Of the olden, olden times. 



IN MIDSUMMER 

A field of clover in the heat ; 

Dusty brown bees with laden thighs, — 

Shaming the idle butterflies, 
The saucy poacher-folk they meet, 

Which steal but never store the prize 
And make no gain of all the sweet. 

A lawless clan ! Desj)ite the sign, 
I watch, entranced, the lovely things ! 
I feed upon their painted wings ; 

I drink their beauty in like wine ! 
Honey is sweet : I doubt it brings, 

To sip it, pleasure half so fine. 

Then let who will extol the bees ; 

For me, the idle butterflies. 

O happy vagrants, if unwise ! 
I watch you sail in spendthrift ease, 

And shutting my toil-weary eyes, 
Own that my mood with yours agrees. 



94 OCTOBER INEFFABLE 



OCTOBER INEFFABLE 

I 'm out in the free woods once more, 
With whispering boughs o'erhead, 

Strange influences round me steal, 

And yet, what deepliest I feel 
Must ever be unsaid. 

These glowing, glowing autumn hours, 

These gorgeous, wildering days ! 
This dainty show of painted flowers, 
As though with dusky-golden showers 
The air were all ablaze ! 

This living, shining, burnished wood, — 

Decked with a thousand dyes ! 
Its strong ribs laced with crimson sheen, 
And tricked with gold and glittering green, 
Like kingly tapestries ! 

This tangled roof of braided light 

Above me richly flung ! 
These glimpses of the sky's soft blue, 
This quivering sunshine melting through, 

This wide earth, glory-hung ! 

How shall I utter all I would ? 
Alas, my struggling soul, — 
It strives to voice these glorious things 



AUTUMN 95 



As strives a bird on broken wings 
To struggle to its goal. 



AUTUMN 

Oh, the lovely autumn days, 
When the earth is all ablaze 
With a thousand kindling dyes, 
And a misty glory lies 
All about our common ways ! 
When a hush is in the air 
Like an inarticulate prayer, 
Nature, underneath her breath, 
Giving thanks for life in death : 
Death, so beautiful and rare, 
Life itself were not so fair. 

Spring is tardy, changeful, fleet ; 
Summer comes with dust and heat 
Waiting on her flying feet : 
But the peaceful autumn stays, 
Blest and blessing, all her days. 
She it is who mellows well 
Dainty, luscious fruits that swell 
From the laggard buds of spring 
And the summer's blossoming. 
Ah, they need her wholesome touch, 
Lest they ripen overmuch ; 
So, with tempered breath, she cools 



96 IN AUTUMN 

All the fevered air, and schools 
Nature to her own wise rules ; 
Then, her labor done, she pours 
Out her bountiful, rich stores, — 
Lighting up, on every hill, 
Altar-fires, and kindling still 
Flames of sacrificial thanks 
Over all her viny banks. 

Spring is tardy, changeful, fleet ; 
Summer comes with dust and heat ; 
But the peaceful autumn stays, 
Blest and blessing, all her days. 



IN AUTUMN 

Put on your beautiful garments, 

O toiling earth, and rest ! 
The goal is won and the toil is done, 

And now you may don your best, 
Your robe of purple and scarlet, 

Your tassels and plumes of gold, 
The misty sheen of your veil of green 

And your mantle's crimson fold. 

earth, so glad and so fruitful ! 
O nature, so brave and true ! 

1 would that we were as wise as ye 
In the work we have to do ! 



IN AUTUMN 97 

We loiter and waste, — we sow not, 

Or scatter our seed in vain, — 
For the stony field must be wrought to yield 

Its treasure of golden grain. 

" Put on your beautiful garments, 

O toiling soul, and rest ! " 
Faint heart of mine ! to that call divine 

Be all thy powers addressed ; 
Sowing beside all waters, 

Faithful in that which is least, 
Constant and still, do the Master's will 

Till the time of toil has ceased. 

Then the peace that shall come and the gladness ! 

The service that shall be rest ! 
And the plaudit won of that word, " Well done ! " 

And the Master's " Come, ye blest ! " 
O earth ! in your sweet fruition 

Rejoice and be glad ! but this, 
The joy of a soul that has reached its goal, 

Is a deeper, holier bliss. 



98 OCTOBER WOODS 

OCTOBER WOODS 

A MOOD 

O blazing woods, lit up with splendors rare ! 
To sing your state, methinks, were but akin 
To his essay whose mocking violin 

Sang burning Rome. These bright, bright robes 
you wear 

Have charms too perilous, because they bear 
The seal of Death. If only we could win 
Your old look back, and stand once more within 

Your aisles of greenness ! 

Ah ! this show and glare 

But mean our banishment. Dear doomed 

woods, 

Where we have wandered the gay summer long, 

Soft, flickering sunshine and the wild bird's song 

Making like Eden your sweet solitudes — 
A flaming sword guards all your gates, in guise 
Of light and beauty : farewell, Paradise ! 



SUMMER IN WINTER 

The summer never quite departs ; 

Despite the snow and sleet and ice, 
I hold her to my heart of hearts 

By many a lovely, quaint device. 



SUMMER IN WINTER 99 

One glance upon my pictured walls 
Brings back her sunny face to me, — 

Her meadow-lands and waterfalls, 
And haunts of wild-wood greenery. 

Her birds flash out in plumage gay 

From frame and easel, — nested things, 

That never pine, nor once essay 

A flight upon their gleaming wings. 

Her plumy grasses deck my stand, 

Her oaks and maples flaunt their sheen 

Of red and gold (by autumn's hand 
Transfigured), here and there between. 

Her flowers and fruits are mine ; I raise 
My hand, and — artist-wrought — I see 

Great crimson roses, lily sprays, 
And blossoms of the fair sweet-pea. 

And still, above my daily board, 

To feast my beauty-loving eye, 
Her June-fed strawberries are poured, 

And cherries sunned by hot July. 

Her gracious presence, too, I meet 
In alien things ; my frosted panes 

The glories of her realm repeat 
And duplicate her broad domains : 



100 HOMESICK 

Great forests here, perhaps ; and there, 
A wilderness of feathery brakes ; 

Strange, tropic growths, grotesque or fair ; 
Rushes and reeds by silver lakes. 

So summer never quite departs ; 

For, spite the snow and sleet and ice, 
She holds me to her heart of hearts 

By many a cunning, quaint device. 



HOMESICK 

Talk not of leafy summer woods, 
Their wealth of sweetest minstrelsy, 

Their sylvan shades and solitudes, — 
I languish for my own blue sea ! 

Breathing the blossom-breath that scents 
The verdurous branches of the pine, 

My longing grows but more intense 
For flavors of the salt sea brine. 

I stand and call : I stretch my hands, 
Imploring, to yon distant main : — 

" sea-lapped shore, O pebbly lands, 
Fold me in your embrace again." 

Only the murmurous winds send back 
An answer, — winds that pine and moan 



THE RAIN 101 

Along the wild wood's leafy track 
With ever melancholy tone. 

O glory-crested waves, that flaunt 

Your brightness in this bright sunshine ! 

Still, still your far-off voices haunt, 
And ever shall, this heart of mine. 



THE RAIN 

Heigh-ho ! the rain, 
The wild, impetuous rain ! 
Hear how it raves at my window-pane ! 
Hurrying down with a mad commotion, 
Mad as the din of a storm-lashed ocean, — 
Sweeping the mountain, pelting the plain, — 
Heigh-ho ! the wild, impetuous rain ! 

Heigh-ho ! the rain, 
The chiding, querulous rain ! 
Hear how it scolds at my window-pane ! 
See on the boughs that are well-nigh breaking, 
Hundreds of leaves in their terror shaking ; 
Seeming to murmur this sad refrain, — 
" Heigh-ho ! the chiding, querulous rain." 

Heigh-ho ! the rain, 
The restless, tremulous rain ! 
Hear how it beats at my window-pane ! 



102 THE RAIN 

Beats like a heart by fear affrighted, 
Beats like a heart with love delighted ; 
Half in gladness and half in pain, — 
Heigh-ho ! the restless, tremulous rain ! 

Heigh-ho ! the rain, 
The pleading, pitiful rain ! 
Hear how it sighs at my window-pane ! 
Type of a breast that is full of sorrow, 
Sighing for peace and a brighter morrow ; 
Sighs that are uttered too oft in vain, — 
Heigh-ho ! the pleading, pitiful rain ! 

Heigh-ho ! the rain, 
The weary, desolate rain ! 
Hear how it sobs at my window-pane ! 
Sobs like a child that has lost its mother, 
And never, never can find another 
To love and cherish like her again ! 
Heigh-ho ! the weary, desolate rain ! 

Heigh-ho ! the rain, 
The dainty, delicate rain ! 
Hear how it taps at my window-pane ! 
Gratefully sweet, like Love's moist fingers 
Laid on a brow where fever lingers, 
Drip the cool sounds on my heated brain, - 
Heigh-ho ! the dainty, delicate rain ! 



BUTTERCUPS 103 

Heigh-ho ! the rain, 
The lovely, musical rain ! 
Hear how it chants at my window-pane ! 
Hushed is the tempest's petulant chiding, 
Gently and gracefully now 't is gliding 
Into a calm and beautiful strain, — 
Heigh-ho ! the lovely, musical rain ! 

Heigh-ho ! the rain, 
The fitful, vanishing rain ! 
Now it has ceased at my window-pane ; 
Through the torn edge of a cloud just parted, 
See ! one tremulous star has started ; 
Putting to silence my dull refrain, — 
11 Heigh-ho ! the fitful, vanishing rain ! " 



BUTTERCUPS 

Buttercups among the grass, 
Smiling on us as we pass, 

Lifting up such happy faces, — 
Starry-bright and bathed in dew, — 
Ah, if we could be like you, 

Each contented in our places ! 

"Whether skies be bright or sad, 
Little matters : you are glad, 

Darlings, in all sorts of weather ; 
Just as happy here as there, 



104 WHAT THE BIRDS SAY 

Just as fresh and debonair 
Singly as in crowds together. 

By the side of dusty street 
Cheerful as in meadow sweet : 

Name the spell, that we may try it ! 
Ah, could gold its purchase be, 
Friend, 't were wise in you and me, 

Selling all we have to buy it ! 



WHAT THE BIRDS SAY 

When they chatter together, — the robins and 
sparrows, 
Bluebirds and bobolinks, — all the day long, 
What do they talk of? The sky and the sun- 
shine, 
The state of the weather, the last pretty song ; 

Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles 
That go to make bird-life so careless and free ; 

The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder, 
The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree ; 

Of matches in prospect ; how Robin and Jenny 
Are planning together to build them a nest ; 

How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping 

At home, and went off on a lark with the 
rest. 



THE CHICKADEE'S SONG 105 

Such mild little slanders ! such innocent gossip ! 
Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright ! 
Such happy love-makings ! such talks in the or- 
chard ! 
Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisper- 
ings at night ! 

O birds in the tree-tops ! O robins and sparrows ! 

O bluebirds and bobolinks! What would be 

May 

Without your glad presence, — the songs that you 

sing us, 

And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say ? 



THE CHICKADEE'S SONG 

In autumn and winter, and far into spring, 
There 's a blithe little songster abroad on the 

wing: 
His note is as chipper as cbipper can be ; 
'T is the glad little, bright little, brave chickadee. 

The sky may be threat'ning, the sky may be 

fair ; 
The bough may be leafy, the bough may be 

bare; 
He cares not the whisk of a feather, — not he, — - 
This bright little, blithe little, brave chickadee ! 



106 TO A KATYDID 

Soft May, bleak December, — what matter to 

him ? 
He lights on a snow-wreath, or sways on a limb, 
And pipes his small numbers with resolute glee, — 
This bright little, smart little, brave chickadee. 

I wonder if ever the world goes awry 

With him and his household, — if cats, on the sly, 

Invade his small homestead : how sad that would 

be, 
You dear little, good little, brave chickadee ! 

But I think, even then, you 'd be out the next 

day 
With the same cheery song ; and to me it would 

say, 
" I 've had lots of trouble, but still, as you see, 
I 'm the same little, brisk little, blithe chickadee. 

" They may pester me, pillage me, rout me : what 

then? 
I can pluck up my courage and try it again ; 
Who talks of repining or fretting ? " says he, — 
This wise little, blithe little, brave chickadee ! 



TO A KATYDID 

Sprite, in leafy covert hid, 

'Twixt your " did n't " and your " did," 



TO A KATYDID 107 

Simple folk are quite in doubt 
What your talk is all about. 

" Did " and " did nH ! " That 's a clear 
Contradiction, Katie, dear; 
One would think you scarcely knew 
Any odds between the two. 

" Did ? " but what ? And where ? And when ? 
" Did n't ! " There you go again ! 
Such a slippery little chit ! — 
After all, what matters it ? 

Who — do you imagine — cares, 
Katie, for your small affairs ? 
Hold your peace ; and, for the rest, 
We '11 concede you did your best. 

If you did n't, more 's the shame ; 
If you did, then where 's the blame ? 
So give o'er : you won't be chid 
Though you did n't or you did. 

Only — your own counsel keep, 
Letting honest people sleep ; 
If you did, then be it so ; 
If you did n't, let it go ! 



108 WHY CATS WASH AFTER EATING 

WHY CATS WASH AFTER EATING 

A cat, one day, a sparrow caught ; 
About to eat her up, 
" Stop ! " cried the sparrow. " Gentlemen 
Should wash before they sup." 
Grimalkin paused. To be presumed 
So fine was rather nice. 
" Quite true," he said and dropped the bird, 
To follow her advice. 

Off flew the sparrow. " Ah ; you rogue," 

Cried pussy, in a rage, 
" So that 's your game ? But I '11 be wise 

In future, I'll engage ! 
I '11 never wash before I eat, 

But after." Which is still 
A fashion that the cats keep up, 

And, doubtless, always will. 



WONDER-LAND 

I wonder what makes the sky so blue ; 

I wonder what makes the moon so bright, 
And whether the lovely stars are born, 

Like brand-new babies, each summer night. 

And why do they hide when daylight comes ? 
I wonder where in the world they go ! 



MY HERITAGE 109 

Perhaps, when the great, hot sun gets up, 
They dry like dew, or they melt like snow. 

I wonder what makes the flowers so sweet ; 

And where do they get their splendid dyes ? 
And why should some be as red as blood, 

And others blue as the summer skies ? 

I wonder, too, — but so much there is 
To puzzle my little head ! — and oh, 

I doubt if ever I '11 find out half 

The wonderful things that I want to know. 



MY HERITAGE 

I am not poor : I own the seas, 
The earth and all its boundaries. 
These happy skies that o'er my head 
Serenely float, for me were spread ; 
For me this sun goes blazing through 
Its path of light ; for me the dew 
Fills, morn and eve, its chalice up ; 
The tulip paints for me its cup ; 
Mine every flower that decks the glade ; 
For me the singing birds were made ; 
The winds that blow, blow soft for me, 
For me they pipe their stormy glee ; 
The great woods hang their banners out 
To hail my coming thereabout ; 



110 MY HERITAGE 

At my poor feet, all bare and brown, 
They drop their nutty treasures down ; 
The squirrel — honest fellow he, 
For all his tricks — goes halves with me : 
He shares my nuts, and I his glee. 

I feel a very millionaire, 

Such wealth have I ! The earth and air 

Pay tribute to me everywhere. 

To feed me, Nature hangs her store 

Of summer fruit about my door. 

See where her loaded trees incline 

Their boughs ! to pluck and eat is mine. 

I ask not how her plums unfold 

Their globes of purple and of gold ; 

Nor how her sun-bright cherries grow, — 

Whether they toil and spin or no 

Small thought have I ; I but outreach 

My hand, and lo, the golden peach, 

Sweet with the sweetness of the south, 

Drops honeyed ripeness on my mouth. 

Nature, kind mother, — I her heir, — 

She cares for me without my care : 

For me her rosy apples blush, 

Her perfumed pears grow large and lush ; 

From vines her dainty finger drapes 

With green, she pulls me purple grapes ; 

She makes the ground I walk on sweet 

With blackberries beneath my feet ; 

She plants my path with flowers, and nods 



MY HE EI T AGE 111 

And smiles to me in goldenrods 

And painted buttercups ; she throws 

Rich odors round the musky rose ; 

Or, coyer grown, hides faint perfumes 

In violets and arbutus-blooms, 

And laughs, through all her realms, to see 

How sweet her breath is unto me ! 

She syllables in meadow brooks 

And sunny glades and sylvan nooks 

Love such as never was in books. 

Sweet priestess, too, — she reads to me 

Her liturgies from every tree, 

And chants her solemn service where 

Her bluebells call to praise and prayer, 

Or breathes, through her eternal calms, 

Her inarticulate, sweet psalms. 

She makes me earnest, grave or gay, 

As suits her mood ; and yet, alway 

She ministers to mine ; she knows 

I love all bright things, — so, with shows 

Of glittering gold and crimson sheen, 

And purple, draped with richest green, 

She lights for me her solitudes 

And paints my way adown her woods ; 

She calls her squirrels out, to greet 

My coming with their frisky feet ; 

Her merry crickets, too, to stir 

The silence with their tuneful whir ; 

She bids her birds with jocund song 

Pipe music to me all day long ; 



112 MY HERITAGE 

For me their prodigal sweet notes 
Leap, liquid, from their golden throats. 
Thus fare I at her hands : and so, 
With feast and song and royal show, 
She waits on me where'er I go. 

Even winter pays his tithe of joy 

Into my lap. I love the boy ! 

He comes with boisterous, honest mirth, 

And lights the fire upon my hearth ; 

And while the blazing embers shine, 

I crack my nuts and drink my wine 

Of sweet content, — rejoicing, still, 

To let the urchin have his will. 

What though he pile my path with snow ? 

I take my shovel down and go 

To earn my meal of morning air ; 

The veriest clown with me may share, 

Nor pay a farthing for his fare. 

And then I take it back in coin 

Of health and strength, — this toil of mine. 

I get, in payment for my pains, 

A quicker flow through all my veins ; 

My cheeks a richer carmine show 

Than French cosmetics could bestow ; 

A subtle grace my lithe limbs gain 

That rules of art might teach in vain. 

Nor this alone the urchin pays 

To offset his uncanny ways ; 

For look you ! every frosty morn, 



MY HERITAGE 

He comes with jewels to adorn 
Each tree and shrub beside my door ; 
I gaze, — I am no longer poor. 
I walk a king ! My cottage shed 
No longer shelters me : instead, 
A palace roofs me, rich and grand, 
Dizened with gems of every land. 
A thousand glittering rubies shine, 
Like great, rich drops of frozen wine, 
Beneath this royal roof of mine. 
The diamond and the opal flame 
Anear me ; jewels wanting name, — 
So bright they be, so rich and rare, — 
Flash splendor round me everywhere. 

I shut my glory-blinded eyes 
For sheer relief, — and straight arise 
Thoughts of that glorious vision told 
By John : the city made of gold 
Stands open to my gaze ; I see 
That too was built for me, for me ! 
And while my spirit faints away 
For very joy, sweet voices say, 
" Thine is the fair, fruit-bearing tree, 
Thine is the burning jasper sea, 
Thine the white robe, the crown, the palm, 
Thine heaven's serene, eternal calm ! " 

The vision fades ; I take again 
Life's duties up, like other men ; 
But oh, the perfect calm, the peace 



113 



114 MY HERITAGE 

That wraps me and shall still increase, 
Until, this happy journey o'er, 
My feet shall touch that shining shore, 
Shall touch and leave it nevermore ! 
So live I on, contented still 
To go or stay, as suits His will ; 
And singing in my heart this song 
Of sweetness as I pass along : — 

" Dear Lord, if such the earthly gauge 
Of my immortal heritage, 
If such the imperfect glimpses given, 
The faint foreshadowings of heaven, 
The taste of sweets in store for me, 
"What shall the full fruition be ? 
And what the treasures of Thy love 
And grace laid up for me above ? 
I cannot tell ; I but believe 
No tongue can speak nor heart conceive 
The sweetness, the surpassing bliss 
Of that world, far transcending this. 
I cannot tell ; I only know 
I own all things, above, below : 
All things, — and still, through gain and loss, 
Through hero's crown and martyr's cross, 
I see but one bright promise shine, 
I read but one illumined line, 
I know but this, — all things are mine ! " 



DO THEY MISS ME AT HOME? 115 



DO THEY MISS ME AT HOME ? 

Do they miss me at home, do they miss me ? 

'T would be an assurance most dear 
To know that this moment some loved one 

Was saying, " Oh, were she but here ! " 
To know that the group at the fireside 

Were thinking of me as I roam, — 
Oh yes, 't would be joy beyond measure, 

To know that they missed me at home ! 

When twilight approaches, — the season 

That ever was sacred to song, — 
Does some one repeat my name over, 

And sigh that I tarry so long ? 
And is there a chord in the music 

That 's missed when my voice is away ? 
And a chord in each heart that awaketh 

Regret at my wearisome stay ? 

Do they place me a chair near the table 

When evening's home-pleasures are nigh, 
And candles are lit in the parlor, 

And stars in the calm azure sky ? 
And when the good-nights are repeated, 

Does each the dear memory keep, 
And think of the absent, and waft me 

A whispered " Good-night " ere they sleep ? 



116 THE GOOD WIFE 

Do they miss me at home, do they miss me, 

At morning, at noon and at night ? 
And lingers one gloomy shade round them 

That only my presence can light ? 
Are joys less invitingly welcomed, 

And pleasures less dear than before, 
Because one is missed from the circle, — 

Because / am with them no more ? 

Oh yes — they do miss me ! Kind voices 

Are calling me back as I roam, 
And eyes have grown weary with weeping, 

And watch but to welcome me home ! 
Sweet friends, ye shall wait me no longer, 

No longer I '11 linger behind ; 
For how can I tarry, while followed 

By watchings and pleadings so kind ? 



THE GOOD WIFE 

"A prudent wife is from the Lord." "Whoso findeth a wife, 
findeth a good thing." — Proverbs of Solomon. 

Ay, Lord ! and I do thank Thee, — sure that she 
"Whom I do call " gude-wife," was sent by Thee ; 
And I accept her humbly, and do make 
This rude yet heartsome verse for her dear sake. 

How fair she is, beseems not me to tell ; 
Yet sweet Rebekah by the ancient well 



THE GOOD WIFE 117 

More sweet, more fair, more beauteous scarce 

could be, 
Than is my love, my fair one, unto me. 

She sits with Mary at the Master's feet ; 
With Martha rises to prepare Him meat ; 
With Dorcas plies her needle's shining steel 
To assuage the woes she cannot wholly heal. 

She maketh little coats with Hannah's care, 
And Hannah's forethought, for the children's 

wear; 
And if in Shiloh ever they appear 
Be sure the mother-hand hath led them there. 

She plies the distaff, and with equal skill 
Discourseth music at her own sweet will ; 
While on her lips the law of kindness reigns, 
And in her heart the rule of love obtains. 

She riseth while 't is night, — and giveth each 
Their portion ; and with gentle look and speech, 
She doth prevent the evening on the hill, 
Since, where she smileth, it is daybreak still ! 

Sweet mother-wife ! she careth for us all ; 
The little, lonely sparrow on the wall 
Sees the white glancing of her hand, and straight 
Flies for his portion at her bounteous gate. 



118 A MOTHER'S LOVE 

So blest and blessing, she doth 'mongst us move, 
A sweet embodiment of perfect love ; 
I see her white wings growing day by day, 
I almost hear heaven calling, " Come away ! " 

Nay, nay ; not yet, dear Lord ! I need her still ; 
Thou hast Thine angels on Thy holy hill ; 
Leave, leave me mine, — for yet a little while 
Lend me her hand, her voice, her gentle smile. 

For she to me is Thine own angel given 
To show my lagging feet the way to heaven ; 
She ministers to me in such sweet guise ! 
I read Thy gospel in her gracious eyes ! 

Bereft of her, I doubt this grief-dimmed eye 
The heavenly heights henceforward could descry 
For human tears ! Then take her not, I pray, 
Or take me with her up the shining way ! 



A MOTHER'S LOVE 

Like the first star that heralds glorious eve, 
Like the first blush that beckons in the day, 

Like the first snowdrop lavish Aprils weave 
To deck the bosom of the festive May ; 

Like the warm carol of the early bird 

Whose note was mute before, or idly heard ; 

Like all dear things just bursting ; like the bloom 



BABY'S WARDROBE 119 

Of the first rosebud rending its green tomb, — 
So burst thy love upon my helpless life, 
Dear Mother, when that hour of pain and strife 
That laid me in thine arms, gave plane to tears 
Of exquisite, sweet joy and holy fears ! 
Thy love, dear mother, warmed me into birth, 
Nor shall its ray depart while either dwells on 
earth ! 

BABY'S WARDROBE 

Fold them all up, the clothes she wore, 
Each dainty frock and pinafore : 
She will not wear them any more. 

They were all made with my own hand ; 
I laid each plait, I wrought each band 
With care you could not understand. 

" No need," you said ; " a plainer dress 
Befits her years : and Art's excess 
But hinders Nature's perfectness. 

" For see the lilies, how they grow, — 
God fashioned them, and yet we know 
Not Solomon was apparelled so." 

" Ay, see the lilies," I replied ; 

" God made them fair, and I abide 

His wisdom who did so decide. 



120 BABY'S WARDROBE 

" For He loves beauty everywhere, 
And whoso seeks to make more fair 
His work, works with Him unaware. 

" The hint God gives me I shall take, 
And help, in my poor way, to make 
His gift complete for His gift's sake." 

Oh, my own Lillie ! no more dead 
Beneath the lilies, but, instead, 
All glory-crowned, and habited 

In shining raiment pure and white, — 

I think I sinned not in His sight 

Who clothes you now with robes of light ; 

I think I did not err in aught 
Because, with mother-care and thought 
(Perhaps with mother-pride), I sought 

To link with your sweet babyhood 

All sweet surroundings, — good with good, 

Lovely with lovely, — as I should. 

The angels have you now ; you wear 
Robes fashioned with more subtle care, 
And fairer, whiter than these are. 

I fret not, sweet ! a strange content 
Is with my daily yearnings blent ; 
For, thinking of the way you went, 



THE CHILD'S LAST WISH 121 

I see no dismal valley, black 
With terrors, — but a shining track 
And a white angel looking back ! 



"ONLY ME" 

A little figure glided through the hall ; 

" Is that you, Pet ? " the words came tenderly : 
A sob — suppressed to let the answer fall — 

" It is n't Pet, mamma ; it 's only me." 

The quivering baby lips ! they had not meant 
To utter any word could plant a sting, 

But to that mother-heart a strange pang went ; 
She heard, and stood like a convicted thing ! 

One instant, and a happy little face 

Thrilled 'neath unwonted kisses rained above : 
And, from that moment, " Only Me " had place 

And part with " Pet " in tender mother-love. 



THE CHILD'S LAST WISH 

" Mother, dear mother, the day is done ; 
Rapidly sinketh the setting sun, — 
While on the wings of the passing hours, 
Lingers the breath of the shutting flowers. 
Mother, dear mother, before I die, 



122 THE CHILD'S LAST WISH 

Throw up the sash to the clear night sky ; 

Fain would I whisper a last farewell 

To the gentle flowers that I loved so well." 

The mother rose with a tearful eye, 

And threw up the sash to the evening sky. 

" Mother, dear mother, they all are there 

With their gentle eyes and their foreheads fair ; 

Lily and violet, myrtle and rose, 

Laying them down to their night's repose. 

Mother, I wish I could pass away 

From this lovely earth with the dying day ! 

How sweet to be borne to celestial bowers 

On the pleasant breath of the fainting flowers ! " 

The mother turned with an anxious eye, 
And gazed on her darling tearfully. 

" Mother, dear mother, I fain would rest, 

Pillowed once more on your loving breast. 

Dark to my vision is twilight now, 

Cold are the shadows that press my brow. 

Mother, dear mother, your gentle face 

Mid the thick darkness no more I trace ; 

Death is around me, — farewell ! I roam 

On the breath of flowers to my heavenly home." 

The mother gazed, but her tears were dried ; 
Her child, with the fainting blossoms, died. 



MAY DREAMS 123 



MAY DREAMS 

" Where have you been, this long, bright day ? " 

I said last night to a tired child ; 
" I 've been to the woods to see if May 

Is coming," she said, and gravely smiled. 

" And what did you find, sweet searcher, — what ? 

How did the woods reward your quest ? " 
" I found one blue forget-me-not, 

And a robin thinking about his nest ; 

" And springing grasses and clover-shoots, 

And a bluebird singing overhead ; 
Violets under some gnarled old roots, 

And nodding columbines white and red ; 

" Some star-flowers, too, by a shady pool, 

Such wee, white things ! and I bathed my feet 

In a dancing rivulet, clear and cool, 

And I gathered ferns and mosses sweet ; 

" Oh, and so many things besides ! 

But now I am tired, please, — good night ! " 
And she lays her hand in mine and glides 

Gently, gracefully out of sight. 

But her last words haunt me, soft and low, — 
" Oh, and so many things besides ! " 



124 MABEL'S CURE 

Ah, sweet dreamer ! you little know 
All the meaning that in them hides \ 

Faith in an end as yet unseen, 

Boundless trust in a promised good, — 

These were the spoils that you brought yestreen, 
Richest of all, from that dim old wood ! 

Build, O robin, your downy nest! 

Sing, O bluebird, and dance, stream ! 
Spring, all green things, and own her quest ! 

Come, May-time, and crown her dream ! 



MABEL'S CURE 

" The world is even as we take it, 

And life, dear child, is what we make it." 

Thus spoke a grandame, bent with care, 
To little Mabel, flushed and fair. 

But Mabel took no heed that day, 
Of what she heard her grandame say. 

Years after, when, no more a child, 
Her path in life seemed dark and wild, 

Back to her heart the memory came 
Of that quaint utterance of the dame : 



A MEMORY 125 

" The world, dear child, is as we take it, 
And life, be sure, is what we make it." 

She cleared her brow : and smiling, thought, 
" 'T is even as the good soul taught ! 

" And half my woes thus quickly cured, 
The other half may be endured." 

No more her heart its shadow wore ; 
She grew a little child once more. 

A little child in love and trust, 

She took the world, — as we, too, must, — 

In happy mood ; and lo ! it grew 
Brighter and brighter to her view ! 

She made of life — as we, too, should — 
A joy ; and lo ! all things were good ! 



A MEMORY 

" And tho' a thousand read these lines, 
But twain shall understand." 

I had a friend once, and she was to me 
What fragrance is to flowers, or song to birds, 
Part of my being : but there came a time 
(I cannot tell you how, or when, or where), 



126 A MEMORY 

A time that severed us. There was no fierce, 
Hot trouble at our parting. It was calm, 
Because it was so gradual. Ere I knew, 
We had grown cold at meeting, colder still 
At our good-by. But, looking on it now, 
After long years, I marvel at it all, 
And weep more tears than I did then, by far, 
Over this strange, sad parting, this blank wreck 
Of love, and hope, and friendship, and warm 

trust. 
Oh, it is pitiful, — this breaking up 
Of human sympathy and sweet heart-tryst ! 
Had we so many friends — this friend and I — 
That we could well afford to give the slip 
Each to the other ? drifting thus apart, 
Like ships that meet upon some tropic sea 
For one brief passing hour, exchange stale news, 
Gossip of cargoes, or the last-made port, 
Then sail away, each on its separate course, 
And never dream, nor care, to meet again ! 

I think the heart grows chary of its friends, 

As years and death do steal them from our grasp ; 

I could not let a friend go now as I 

Did then ; for I was thoughtless then and 

young. 
Ah well ! I wonder if she cares, or if 
She ever thinks of those old, foolish days 
When, with her hand in mine, we sat and talked, 
And kissed each other 'twixt our happy words, 



THE REASON 127 

And vowed " eternal friendship," — endless trust. 

It may be so ; and if this idle verse 

(Albeit not so idle as it seems), 

Should meet her eye, — I would, I would it 

might ! — 
She too may give a sigh to those old days, 
And wish, with me, that one had been more true, 
And both more patient, — that the olden time 
Had less of bitterness mixed with its sweet, 
Making the after-draught so drugged with pain 
That, even now, tears come because of it. 



THE REASON 

Dear Love, bear with me that so long 
My harp has lain unstrung, unswept, 
Since to have waked it while it slept 

Had been to do my nature wrong. 

How could I pour in measured chime 
My brimming love's intensity ? 
Or level one dear thought of thee 

To the low stature of a rhyme ? 

Enough that in my heart's deep well 
Lies love by language yet unstirred, 
Unfathomed yet by any word, 

Beyond what lip of mine can tell. 



128 REQUITAL 

Then bear with me, nor chiding say, 
" Why thus ? " but rather, " Be it so ; 
Let words, the froth of feeling, go ; 

Her love lies deeper far than they." 



REQUITAL 

[A. W. B.] 

The violets are growing on her grave 
Who last year gave me roses dewy-cool, 

Saying, " Take these, dear heart, and these : to 
have 
And not bestow, were but a sorry rule." 

And so she rained them on me as she clung 
To the light lattice, — clusters red and white 

And palest pink, in musky showers down-flung, 
Till the June air grew moist with coming 
night. 

And now she lies the violets below, 

And June, with all its roses, cannot stir 

One pulse of her sweet being : let them go ! 
They bloom in vain for me, since not for her. 

And yet not quite in vain, my heart, — not quite ; 
For when these buds, slow-trembling into 
bloom, 



RECONCILIATION— IN MEMORIAM 129 

Open their bosoms to the soft June light 
Gilding alike their beauty and her tomb, 

'T will be my turn to pluck them ; I shall go 
With brimful hands, some June day, where 
she lies, 
And shower them o'er her, weeping : will she 
know 
The sweet requital in those far-off skies ? 



RECONCILIATION 

If thou wert lying cold and still and white 

In death's embraces, mine enemy ! 

I think that if I came and looked on thee, 
I should forgive ; that something in the sight 
Of thy still face would conquer me, by right 

Of death's sad impotence, and I should see 

How pitiful a thing it is to be 
At feud with aught that 's mortal. 

So to-night, 
My soul, unfurling her white flag of peace, 

Forestalling that dread hour when we may 
meet, — 

The dead face and the living, ■ — fain would cry, 
Across the years, " Oh, let our warfare cease ! 

Life is so short, and hatred is not sweet : 

Let there be peace between us ere we die ! " 



130 IN ME MORI AM 



IN MEMORIAM 

Last year we watched the robins build, 
The mated robins glad and free : 
To-day my eyes with tears are filled ; 
Once more the mated robins build, 

But she is gone who watched with me. 

Last year we walked and gathered flowers 

Together, blossoms wan and wee, 
Arbutus blooms ; but now the hours 
May pass, — ungathered grow the flowers, 
For she is gone who walked with me. 

grave, sweet face, with eyes of brown 
That wistful still do turn to me, 

1 cannot bid your image down ! 

Go where I will, your eyes of brown 
Still follow, and still yearn to me. 



Sometimes her favorite air I play, 
And wonder, as I wake the strings, 

If spirits passed from earth away 
Are touched by earthly things. 

Then I recall her words that fell 
One night, " That lovely melody 

You never play one half so well 
For others as for me." 



THE GRAVE BY THE EUXINE 131 

I never play it now, dear heart, 

Without a throb half joy, half pain, — 

As if you, somehow, stood apart 
And listened to the strain. 

I know how ravishing must be 

Heaven's music in your happy ears, 

Yet something whispers low to me, 
" Play on : she hears ! she hears ! " 

Then how the sweet notes throb and swell 
Beneath my touch ! Dear heart, 't is true : 

I never play one half so well 
For others as for you ! 



THE GRAVE BY THE EUXINE 

[H. B. S.] 

I took from my garden a rosebud ; 

It was sweet, it was fair ; 
I wore it awhile on my bosom ; 

It perished there. 

" From whence comes this exquisite fragrance ? " 

Then I said, — for, in part, 
I 'd forgotten the beautiful rosebud 

I wore on my heart. 



132 AROMA 

And it answered me, — leaf by leaf drooping, 

Fading still, fading slow, — 
" Unmeasured in life, my full sweetness 

Death makes you know ! " 

And I thought of a grave by the Euxine, 
And my tears fell like rain : 



But roses will wither 


, and loved 


ones 


Return not again. 






AROMA 




[H. 


B.S.] 





O fairest rose, whose fragrant, dying breath 
Fills my hushed room ! thou mind'st me, fad- 
ing there, 
Of one who kept as sweet a tryst with death 
After a life as fair. 

This friend — few peers she had — we could di- 
vine 
Her presence by a secret, subtle sense 
Of something pure about us, rare and fine, 
And clean of all pretence. 

And if she joyed or wept with us, anon 

Our joy grew deeper ; and anon our tears, 
Sunned by her sweetness, rainbow hues took on, 
And spanned our cloudy fears. 



DISSOLVING VIEWS 133 

No spell occult, no secret marvellous, 

She held ; yet wrought, as by a hint divine, 
The old time miracle, and turned for us 
Life's water into wine. 

O brief, bright life ! — exhaling as it fled 

Undying fragrance — leaving to our keep 
Such sweetness that we cannot hold her dead, 
For all these tears we weep. 

Poor tears ! poor words, our grief that cannot tell ! 
And yet that grief were scant which words 
could speak : 
So rills outbabble rivers ; it is well ; 
Let words for us be weak. 

Fade, fairest rose ! all the hushed air around 

Is sweet because of thee ; and thou, O friend, 
Because of thee all earth is holy ground, 
And shall be to the end. 



DISSOLVING VIEWS 

When I have been long gone, if one I love, 
And who loves me, shall chance upon a ring, 
That I have worn, or any simple thing, — 

A knot of ribbon, or a faded glove, — 

I wonder if the sight of it will move 

To fond remembrance, and if tears will spring, 
And if the sudden memory will bring 

A sudden sadness over field and grove. 



134 WHEN I AM OLD 

Perhaps : and yet how quickly we forget ! 

And how new scenes, new faces that we meet, 
Crowd out the old, — until the world grows 

gay 

Above forgotten graves. Softest regret 

Grows stale by keeping ; and, however sweet, 
No past has quite the sweetness of to-day. 



WHEN I AM OLD 

When I am old, — and oh, how soon 
Will life's sweet morning yield to noon, 
And noon's broad, fervid, earnest light 
Be shrouded in the solemn night ; 
Till like a story well-nigh told, 
Will seem my life — when I am old. 

When I am old this breezy earth 
Will lose for me its voice of mirth ; 
The streams will have an undertone 
Of sadness, not by right their own ; 
And spring's sweet power in vain unfold 
In rosy charms — when I am old. 

When I am old I shall not care 
To deck with flowers my faded hair ; 
'T will be no vain desire of mine, 
In rich and costly dress to shine : 
Bright jewels and the brightest gold 
Will charm me naught when I am old. 



WEEN I AM OLD 135 

When I am old my friends will be 
Old and infirm and bowed, like me ; 
Or else, their bodies 'neath the sod, 
Their spirits dwelling safe with God, — 
The old church bell will long have tolled 
Above their rest, when I am old. 

When I am old I 'd rather bend 
Thus sadly o'er each buried friend, 
Than see them lose the earnest truth 
That marks the friendship of our youth ; 
'T will be so sad to have them cold 
Or strange to me, when I am old ! 

When I am old ! oh, how it seems 
Like the wild lunacy of dreams, 
To picture, in prophetic rhyme, 
That dim, far-distant, shadowy time ; 
So distant that it seems o'erbold 
Even to say — " When I am old ! " 

When I am old ? perhaps ere then, 
I shall be missed from haunts of men ; 
Perhaps my dwelling will be found 
Beneath the green and quiet mound ; 
My name by stranger hands enrolled 
Among the dead, ere I am old ! 

Ere I am old ? that time is now, 
For youth sits lightly on my brow ; 



136 THE SUNDIAL 

My limbs are firm, and strong, and free ; 
Life has a thousand charms for me, — 
Charms that will long their influence hold 
Within my heart ere I am old. 

Ere I am old, oh, let me give 

My life to learning how to live ! 

Then shall I meet with willing heart 

An early summons to depart, 

Or find my lengthened days consoled 

By God's sweet peace, when I am old. 



THE SUNDIAL 

Iloras non numero nisi serenas." — Inscription on an old sun- 



dial. 



" * I note the bright hours as they fly 
And let the dark uncounted die.' 
Wise words ! " said one, as we rode by 
Where, on an ancient dial, scrolled 
In arabesque and carved in gold, 
Shone out that motto, quaint and old. 

" Wise words and brave ! " and cheerily 
Her laugh rang out : and yet to me 
They hold scant wisdom. Can it be 
That both had knowledge to divine, 
And that her eyes had read the sign, 
With insight clear and true as mine ? 



A CHRISTMAS LEGEND 137 

Each for herself : no doubt I lack 
"Where she abounds. But looking back 
Along life's ever varying track, 
For me its dim and clouded ways 
Outvalue all the garish blaze 
That lighted up its shining days ; 

Because they opened to my sight 
(As stars are only seen by night) 
Great vistas of celestial light ; 
Visions that darkness made my own, 
Glimpses of things I had not known 
But for the shadows round me thrown. 



A CHRISTMAS LEGEND 

Hermann, the charcoal - burner, went home 

through the forest one night, 
The snow was falling about him like a great veil 

soft and white : 
'T was the eve of the blessed Christmas, and his 

heart was glad and light. 

For he said, " The wife and the children are wait- 
ing me, I know, 

And the lamps were lit on the fir-tree full half an 
hour ago, — 

I can almost see them gleaming through the white 
mist of the snow." 



138 A CHRISTMAS LEGEND 

But suddenly a faint wailing fell upon Hermann's 
ear, — 

Was it the wind in the branches ? was it a cause- 
less fear 

Born of the night and the darkness ? The old 
man paused to hear. 

It was not a causeless terror, it was not the 
branches bare, 

Tossing their arms in the windy and desolate win- 
ter air ; 

'T was the voice of a wailing baby, innocent, 
sweet and fair. 

" Scantily clothed and shivering, sobbing alone in 

the snow, 
Why have they left thee, sweet one ? " the old 

man murmured low. 
" See, I will take thee homeward ! Little one, 

wilt thou go ? " 

So he pressed the weeping baby close to his own 

gaunt form, 
And sheltered it in his bosom, away from the 

smiting storm, 
Till he reached his home by the forest, where the 

Christmas lights gleamed warm. 

And the good wife gave heart-welcome, while 
higher still she piled 



A CHRISTMAS LEGEND 139 

The board that with Christmas gladness and 

Christmas plenty smiled, 
And the children gathered around him to gaze at 

the little child, — 

The little desolate wanderer brought from the 

forest gloom ; 
They showed him the pretty fir-tree blazing with 

light and bloom, 
At the board with its smiling plenty they gave 

the stranger room, — 

Gazing and gazing upon him, the child so won- 
drous fair, 

With his clear blue eyes so shining, his cluster- 
ing, golden hair, 

Till, gazing, a sudden glory illumined all the air ! 

For over the curls so golden, a halo grew and 

grew, 
The soft eyes "beamed new lustre, two white wings 

blossomed through 
The tips of the lovely shoulders, — then, gliding 

from their view, 

Spreading white hands of blessing, the beautiful 

vision fled ! 
And Hermann knew of a surety, even as Christ 

has said, 
" Who helpeth the poor and needy, helpeth the 

Lord instead." 



140 A CHRIST 31 AS LEGEND 

And he cried, «* 'T is the holy Christ-child ! " and 
clasped in glad embrace 

His wondering wife and children, then fell upon 
his face 

And thanked the Lord for his goodness, his mar- 
vellous, rich grace. 

And when, in the early dawning of the blessed 

Christmas Day, 
Good Hermann went to the forest, lo, where the 

Christ-child lay, 
'T was as if the snow had blossomed ! for under 

the twilight gray, 

A cluster of fair, white flowers, bosomed in ten- 
der green, 

Lit up the place with a shimmering, dainty, deli- 
cate sheen ; 

And Hermann knelt and plucked them ; then, 
with a reverent mien, 

Home to his wife and children the sacred flowers 

he bore : 
Chrysanthemums he named them, and cherished 

them evermore 
With pious care, — and always, when Christmas 

comes with store 

Of cheer and plenty, the children take of their 
fruit and bread 



UNDER A PICTURE— THE OUTCAST 141 

And give to some little outcast, because of Him 

who said, 
" Who giveth to these little ones, giveth to me 

instead." 



UNDER A PICTURE OF "THE MAG- 
DALENE." 

Be merciful. How dost thou know 
But thou thyself mightst fall as low, 
But for some happy trick of chance, 
Or helpful freak of circumstance, 
Some lucky accident of race, 
Or birth, or blood, or dwelling-place ? 

Be merciful. God's even scales 
Decide where human judgment fails : 
Who seem most lost, some day may lie 
Nearer God's heart than you or I ; 
We cannot tell, we do not know : 
Be merciful. The Christ was so. 



THE OUTCAST 

There came a poor soul to my door ; 
I knew her vile as well as poor ; 
But there was something in her air 
Disarmed and won me, unaware. 



142 THE OUTCAST 

A wailing soul looked out from eyes 
Born blind to all sweet sanctities, — 
As if life's husks even to her 
Too meagre, poor and bitter were ; 

As if despite her wretchedness 

And wrongs, she asked not for redress, 

So much as pity, guidance, light, 

A chance to grope her way aright, 

If haply even for her might shine 
Some glimmering of a light divine, 
Some faint, heaven-lighted, faltering ray 
Slow-leading to a brighter day. 

I saw the hunger in her face, 

And loathing in my soul gave place 

To instant, yearning love, akin 

To his who said, " You without sin, — 

If such there be, — the first stone cast ! " 
And, all my weakness overpast, 
Obedient to the heavenly word, 
My oil and wine I freely poured. 

I housed her, fed her, clothed her, brought 
Garments that my own hands had wrought 
Till, 'neath my ministries, she grew 
Transfigured to my pitying view. 



AMIN, THE MISER 143 

In her poor form I but descried 
A little one for whom Christ died, 
And Mercy infinite stole in, 
"With her white hand and hid the sin ; 

Or, rather, held it to my view 
And bade me look as angels do, — 
Joying o'er one who finds the way 
More than o'er crowds who never stray. 

So, mingling with her tears my own, 
We knelt before one common throne 
And, " God be merciful to me, 
A sinner ! " was her only plea. 

Thus clinging to his garment's hem 
Who came to pity, not condemn, 
He bade her sobs convulsive cease, 
And whispered, " Daughter, go in peace." 

Oh sweet and gracious sacrament 
Of love ! I blessed her as she went, 
And felt new life within me stir 
Because of that new-given to her ! 



AMIN, THE MISER 

Long centuries ago — so runs the tale — 
There raged a frightful famine in the land 



144 .AM IN, THE MISER 

Fed by the fruitful Nile : from morn till eve, 
From evening until morn, a starving crowd, — 
Mothers with babies wailing at their breasts, 
Pinched, pallid children, men grown gaunt with 

want, — 
Besieged the granaries that the rich had filled 
From the last plenteous harvest, — offering stores 
Of gold and gear and precious household goods 
For but a handful of the yellow grain 
Piled up so high within. So, one by one, 
The great doors opened to the clamorous pleas 
Of the poor, starving wretches, hunger-mad. 

At length but one remained, but one of all 
The vast storehouses that the rich had filled 
Against the time of need, — and that was owned 
By Amin, the old miser. Day by day 
He sat upon its steps, watching the march 
Of the great famine fiend, — with hellish greed 
Deep-calculating how he might extort, 
Through man's sore need, the greatest usury 
Out of God's loving bounty ; day by day, 
The desperate people clamored at the gates, 
Beseeching him for charity's sweet sake, 
To give them but a morsel in exchange 
For wealth laid up against old age and want 
Through years of toil. The old man only jeered : 

" What ! would ye have me yield my precious 
stores, 



AMIN, THE MISER 145 

Worth twice, nay, thrice their weight in yellow 

gold, — 
To such poor pittance ? nay, bring more, bring 

more ! 
All that a man hath will he give for life ; 
And that is what I sell ye — life, life, life ! " 

Oh, pitiless ! the starving creatures heard, 
And homeward crawled with all their little 

strength, 
Bringing back gold, more gold, — until, at last, 
Even the miser-soul of this old man 
Was satisfied. With cruel, mocking zeal, 
He hastes to open, — but recoils aghast 
As the great doors slide back. Oh, judgment 

meet! 
For heaven had sent the worm into his corn ; 
And now, instead of piles of golden wheat, 
A festering mass, — corruption, rottenness, — 
Is all that meets his horror-stricken sight ! 

Starved as they were, the waiting, longing 
crowd 
Raised a great shout of triumph at the sure 
And manifest judgment ; Amin heard it not ; 
For God had smitten him, and he had died, 
Down-stricken in his evil hour of pride. 



146 A VOICE FOR THE POOR 



A VOICE FOR THE POOR 

Put out the light 
And look into the night, 
Raise the curtain high and higher, 
Quench the glare of the blinding fire, 
So may we look to our heart's desire 

Into the night ! 
Into the face of the black, black night. 

What a sight ! 
Earth seems maddened with affright ! 
Hear the wild wind shrieking, roaring, 
Mercy from the storm imploring, 
The merciless storm that never hears 
The wild wind pleading in his ears, 
Praying for a little space, 
A little slackening in the race. 
But the pitiless sleet keeps flying on 

Here and there and everywhere, 

Challenging the weary air 
To another race now this is won. 
Merciless storm, we pray thee, hark 

To the wild wind's praying ; 
Listen through the dreary dark 

To what his pleading lips are saying : 

" Oh, the poor, 

The poor and old, 
On the moor 

And on the wold, — 



A VOICE FOR TEE POOR 147 

How desolate they are to-night and cold ! 

— I have been 

To the cottage in the glen, 

I whirled around the crazy shed 

Where the children were all a-bed, 

And I could hear them moan and weep, 

For they could not sleep. 

' We cannot sleep,' said they. 

' Father is out on the stormy bay, 
And the night is dark and the sea is deep ; 

Would God that it were day ! ' 
What more the little children said 

I cannot say, 

For I stopped my ears and whirled away 
To pray in thine instead 

For a little space, 

A little slackening in the race, 
That so the weeping children may 

Behold again their father's face, 
Returning with the morning's ray 
Back from the stormy bay." 

But the merciless sleet keeps flying on 

Here and there and everywhere, 

Challenging the weary air 
To another race now this is won. 
Merciless storm, we pray thee, hark 

To the wild wind's praying ; 
Listen through the dreary dark 

To what his pleading lips are saying : 



148 A VOICE FOR TEE POOR 

" Oh, the poor, 

The poor and old, 
On the moor 

And on the wold, — 
How desolate they are to-night and cold ! 
— I met a traveller on the hill, — 
An old man, faint and very chill — 
Hoary with age and hoarier still 
With the white, blinding snow 
That over his hoary locks did blow. 
Pity the traveller old and gray ! 
Maybe he has pushed all day 

Through the driving storm and sleet ; 
Maybe he has lost his way, 
And his shivering feet, 
How they must long and ache to greet 
The glowing fireside's genial heat ! 
Pity the traveller old and gray, 
Pity the faint old man, I pray." 

But the merciless sleet keeps flying on 

Here and there and everywhere, 

Challenging the weary air 
To another race now this is won. 
Merciless storm, we pray thee, hark 

To the wild wind's praying ; 
Listen through the dreary dark 

To what his pleading lips are saying : 



' Oh, the poor, 

The poor and old, 



A VOICE FOR TEE POOR 149 

On the moor 

And on the wold, — 
How desolate they are to-night and cold ! 
— I peeped into the broken panes, 
Where the snow and sleet and rains 
Of many a weary year have stolen 
Till the sashes are smeared and soaked and 

swollen ; 
Little children with tangled hair, 
And lips awry and feet half bare, 

Huddled around the smouldering fire, 
Like beasts half crouching in their lair ; 

While each the while by stealth drew 
nigher 
Covetous of the others' share. 

Oh, 't was a pitiful sight to see ! 
And mothers too were there 

With infants shivering on their knee, 
Or closer held with a mother's care, 
Or laid to rest with a hurried prayer, 
A moan, half hope and half despair, 
A muttered ' Pitiless storm, forbear.' " 

But the merciless sleet keeps flying on 

Here and there and everywhere, 

Challenging the weary air 
To another race now this is won. 
Yet over all, through sleet and rain, 
I seem so hear this low refrain, 
This sobbing, desolate, direful strain : 



150 A VOICE FOR THE POOR 

" Oh, the poor, 

The poor and old, 
On the moor 

And on the wold, — 
How desolate they are to-night and cold ! " 
And I sit and muse at my window still, 
And strain my eyes to the distant hill 
In search of the traveller old and chill ; 
For I long to brush from his shivering form 
The angry curse of the hoary storm, 
And take him in from the snow and sleet, 
And wrap his aching feet 
In soft, old moccasins, snug and warm ; 
And fain, too, would I go 
Through the drifted banks of snow, 

To the crazy shed in the dismal glen, 
Where the children are moaning so, 
And whisper words of hope and cheer, 
How that the storm, though bleak and drear, 
Perchance by morning light will clear, 

Bringing the father home again. 
And in the alleys and wet lanes 

Where freezing children huddle together, 
'T were almost worth my pains 

To face this desperate weather, 
If but the wish to show them good 
Would pile on the blazing wood 
And give them shelter, and clothes, and food ! 
But here I sit at my window still, 
With nothing to show but a hearty will 



A VOICE FOR THE POOR 151 

And earnest longing to help them each, 
Though far beyond my reach ; 
While still the wind's low, sobbing strain 
Keeps smiting my ear with its sad refrain : 

" Oh, the poor, 

The poor and old, 
On the moor 

And on the wold, — 

How desolate they are to-night, and cold ! " 

And I think how sadly to us all 

Wails up this universal call 

From God's great earth, in heat or cold, 
In bright or blustering weather, — 

For each his brother's hand should hold, 
And all should hope and strive together 
As equal sons of one great Father. 

God knows there is enough of care 

For each to have his share ! 

Enough, alas, of crime and sin, 

Not loved, perchance, nor gloried in, 

But born of poverty and woes 

The rich man never knows, — 

Enough to make us all forbear, — 

Enough to urge our warmest powers 

In gladdening this poor world of ours, — 

In sowing it with golden seeds 

Of generous resolves and deeds, — 

In scattering sunshine all around, 

Alike on rich and fallow ground. 



152 A PLEA FOR THE DUMB 

So would this earth be nearer God, — 
Till, throwing its warm life abroad, 
'T would blossom to the very skies, 
A harvest of glad prophecies ! 
The aloe of the patient centuries ! 



A PLEA FOR THE DUMB 

" The Rights of Man ! " O watchword brave ! 

O glorious battle cry, 
Beneath whose stirring clarion-call brave men 

have dared to die ! 
Thy triumphs still come down to us on fame's 

undying page, 
Thy champions are the great and good of every 

clime and age. 

" The Rights of Woman ! " Sacred call ! born 
later, yet aglow 

With all that fired the hero heart in the dear long 
ago! 

Sublime in patience, sounding clear above all 
jarring din, 

" Our cause is just and shall prevail, 't is right- 
eous and shall win." 

These for themselves: but who shall speak for 
those whose mouths are dumb ? 

The poor, brave brutes, with patient eyes, and 
feet that go and come 



A PLEA FOR TEE DUMB 153 

To do our bidding ; toiling on without reward or 

fee, 
Wearing their very lives away, poor things, for 

you and me ! 

Behold them ! how they groan and sweat, beneath 
the heavy load, 

Each sinew taxed, each muscle strained ; while, 
sauntering up the road, 

The lazy teamster walks abreast, — a brute him- 
self, or worse, — 

Urging the poor, spent creatures on, with whip 
and thong and curse. 

The brave, dumb things ! no voice have they to 

say, " Why do ye so ? 
Am I not man's most faithful slave ; his friend 

and not his foe ? 
Give me one kind, caressing word, undo this 

heavy load, 
Nor torture me along the way with whip and 

thong and goad." 

" No voice ? " said I ; nay, every blow, each 
stinging, cutting stroke 

Is eloquent of pain and wrong, as though an 
angel spoke. 

Thank God, at length the plea prevails, our 
Angell takes the word, 

And brave hearts rally at the call as by a trum- 
pet stirred ! 



154 TOUCH NOT, TASTE NOT, HANDLE NOT 

Dear friends ! fair women, sweet with all your 

nameless charms and wiles, 
Bright, laughing maidens, flitting by in innocence 

and smiles, 
Gay children, grave and bearded men, we pray 

you all give ear ; 
Dear friends, kind friends, we turn to you for 

sympathy and cheer. 

Uphold us in our noble work, nor let us speak in 

vain 
For those too helpless to protest, too patient to 

complain ; 
Be pitiful, be generous, to help us in our need, 
And He who notes the sparrow's fall shall surely 

bless the deed. 



TOUCH NOT, TASTE NOT, HANDLE NOT 

Touch not ! Every ill is there, — 
Grief, insanity, despair. 
In that poisoned coil are rolled 
Woes unnumbered and untold. 
Yield not to the insidious foe ; 
Touch not ! Let the tempter go. 

Taste not ! Hear what wisdom saith : 
Shouldst thou taint thy pure, sweet breath ? 
Quench thy young eye's lustrous light 



AGAINST ODDS 155 

'Neath its baneful, blasting blight ? 
No, by God's sweet goodness, no ! 
Taste not ! Bid the tempter go. 

Handle not ! Within its clasp 
Lurks the poison of the asp. 
At the last 't will bite and sting 
Like some vengeful, venomed thing. 
Stand, then, bravely in thy lot ; 
Touch not ! Taste not ! Handle not ! 

AGAINST ODDS 

" I will be strong ! " I said ; alas ! 
That one weak moment should belie 
The brave resolve, the purpose high — 

" I will be strong " — but let it pass. 

Ah, me, that life should have such dower, 
Such fearful scope for good or ill ; 
And that we choose the evil still, 

And falter in temptation's hour ! 

Oh, traitor heart, thrice recreant thou ! 
Again I cry, I will be strong — 
Will yet be greater than the wrong — 

Will yet achieve my life-time vow ! 

Bury my weakness, oh, ye crowd 
Of faithful witnesses, who stand, 



156 SINGLE COMBAT 

Around my soul on every hand, 
And tell the failure not aloud. 



For I shall conquer ! All begun, 
The conflict rages through my life ; 
Yet I shall conquer in the strife, 

And sing at last, a victory won ! 



SINGLE COMBAT 

In all the challenges which life 
Holds out to us, I count it grand, 
Yet half pathetic, that we stand 

Or fall, unaided in the strife : 

That still, unheeded and alone, 

Each soul must meet its mortal foes — 
With none to help or to oppose, 

To mark its paean or its moan. 

What cares the world that you have met 
A fierce temptation on your way, 
Have fought it through the livelong day 

The issue hanging doubtful yet ? 

But this remains to cure the smart, 
To medicine the loneliest wound — 
He stands on consecrated ground 

Who battles bravely, though apart : 



TRUST 157 

Ground that the saints and martyrs trod, 
And once — with reverence be it said — 
Made sacred by the sinless tread 

Of Him who was the Son of God. 



TRUST 

Into the mystery of life, 

Dear Lord, I cannot see ; 
I only know that I exist, 

Made and upheld by Thee. 

The brooding presence of Thy love 

Encircles me about, 
Nor leaves me room for any fear, 

Nor place for any doubt. 

I know Thee in the cloud by day 

As in the fire by night ; 
Both lead me to my promised home, 

The land of my delight. 

The future cannot yield me proof 

More tender or divine, 
Than has the past, that all Thy thoughts 

To meward are benign. 

And backward if I look, I own 
The leadings of Thy love ; 



158 PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING 

Or forward gaze, the same kind hand 
Still beckons from above. 



So, mercies past the pledge shall be 

Of mercies yet in store ; 
And present love the guarantee 

Of love forevermore. 



PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING 

Press the grape, the sweet wine flows ; 
Break the ground, the harvest grows ; 
Crush the shell, the kernel shows. 

As with nature so with man ; 
Such God's universal plan 
Ever since the race began. 

Fallow souls no fruitage bear ; 
Hearts untouched by wholesome care 
Never yield the vintage rare. 

Vain God's constant dew and sun ; 
Still the gracious work undone — 
Nay, in truth, not yet begun. 

Still the soil no harvest yields ; 

So the Lord his ploughshare wields, 

Drives it deep through all his fields ; 



PERFECT LOVE CASTETH OUT FEAR" 159 

Drives it deep and drives it sure ; 
Ah, my soul ! canst thou endure ? 
Patience ! He who wounds can cure. 

Better his ploughshare than his sword ; 
Nathless, can I say, " Dear Lord, 
Do according to thy word ! 

" Root up every baleful thing, 
Every germ of folly bring 
Topmost, for its withering ? " 

Thus prepared, the heavenly seed 
Planted, shall take root indeed, 
Yielding harvests at our need. 

Harvests, too, whose bounteous store, 
Even life forevermore, 
Scattered, shall enrich the poor. 



"PERFECT LOVE CASTETH OUT FEAR" 

With open eyes that look on God, 

My daily journey I pursue : 
I do not dread His lifted rod ; 

Why should I fear what Love can do ? 
And, if I need that He chastise, 
Is He not good as He is wise ? 



160 "HE GIVETH TO HIS BELOVED 1 ' 

I know if I but follow Him 

I shall be safe from harm and make — 
Albeit all the way be dim — 

Nor slip nor failure nor mistake ; 
Or, making such, He will ordain 
What seems my loss shall prove my gain. 

And, though I look, to careless eyes, 
A waif on pathless waters cast, 

His faithful promise shall suffice 
For stay and comfort to the last — 

"When, all my guarded wanderings o'er, 

Let my safe feet but touch the shore, 

And, like a child with home in sight, 

I '11 fall into His open arms, 
Glad that I never felt affright, 

Nor thought of Him as one who harms 
I, His dear child, or here, or there, 
And He, my Father everywhere ! 



"HE GIVETH TO HIS BELOVED IN 
SLEEP" 1 

Last night a glorious vision, 

No eye but mine could see, 
On sleep's white, beautiful pinion 

Came down from my Lord to me : 

1 Marginal translation. 



"CONSIDER THE LILIES" 161 

I heard no song of the angels, 

Only a still, small voice ; 
But it glorified all the silence 

And made the night rejoice. 

friend, would you know the vision 

That over my pillow shone, 
That out of the starry silence 

Spoke to my heart alone — 
The glad and glorious vision, 

No eye but mine could see, 
That on sleep's white, beautiful pinion 

Came down from my Lord to me ? 

If ever my faith grows stronger 

As gloomier grows the night, 
If out of the stormy darkness 

I point to the coming light, 
Be sure I have told the vision 

No eye but mine could see, 
That on sleep's white, beautiful pinion 

Came down from my Lord to me. 



"CONSIDER THE LILIES" 

Lily fair and pure and cool, 

Floating on yon miry pool, 

Is the sweetness all of you ? 

Has the mire from whence you grew 



162 "CONSIDER THE LILIES" 

Naught of virtue, — building up, 
Leaf by leaf, your perfect cup, — 
By some strange, transmuting skill 
Moulding, shaping you at will ? 

Certes, many a flowering shoot, 
With the wholesome earth at root, 
Well may envy you, my queen, 
Blooming from such depths unclean. 

Yet is wrought no occult spell : 
Nature but disposes well 
All her forces ; then, she grows 
Here a lily, there a rose. 

One she tends with dew and sun, 
Cribs in finest mould, and one 
Buries 'neath the dark and slime, 
Bidding each to bide its time, 

Till, arrived at blossoming growth, 
She is justified of both ; 
Since, which sweetest is, who knows, 
Or the lily or the rose ? 

Therefore, ye darkened souls, 
Struggling upward unto goals 
Ye must reach 'gainst bitter odds, 
Courage ! Nature's ways are God's. 



LORD'S DAY 163 

What though He withhold from you, 
For a season, sun and dew ? 
Where you cannot understand, 
Trust to his transmuting hand. 

He who made the water wine 
Knew this alchemy divine : 
Through the paths of pain He trod, 
Perfect grew the Son of God. 

He is risen, laying down 
Toil for triumph, cross for crown ; 
He is risen : soul of mine, 
Courage ! conquer by this sign ! 



LORDS DAY 

I think that all our days should be Lord's days, 
And sacred to his service. Do we need 
Church-calling bells God-ward our steps to lead, 
Organs and choirs to stimulate our praise, 
And well-read homilies our souls to raise 

Above their week-long earthliness and greed ? 
Alas, what profit is it, if succeed, 
To one sweet day employed in hallowed ways, 

Six, spent in worldliness and sloth and pride ? 
Dear Sabbath, pearl of price ! that we should dare 
To set thee in such tinsel for the wear 

Of the Great King ! How shall our work abide 



164 MATIN HYMN 

When He shall come like a consuming fire 
And dross shall melt beneath his sacred ire ? 



MATIN HYMN 

I lift the sash and gaze abroad 

On the sweet earth so fair and bright ; 

I raise my heart to Thee, oh God, 

And cry, " I thank Thee for the light ! " 

Beyond, the summer hills lie green, 

Fringed with their wealth of waving trees, 

That sparkle in the sunny sheen 

And tremble in the trembling breeze. 

God, I thank Thee for each sight 
Of beauty that Thy hand doth give ; 

For sunny skies and air and light ; 
Oh God, I thank Thee that I live ! 

That life I consecrate to Thee, 

And ever, as the day is born, 
On wings of joy my soul would flee 

And thank Thee for another morn ; 

Another day in which to cast 
Some silent deed of love abroad, 

That, greatening as it journeys past, 
May do some earnest work for God. 



EVENTIDE 165 

Another day to do, to dare ; 

To tax anew my growing strength ; 
To arm my soul with faith and prayer; 

And so reach heaven and Thee at length. 



EVENTIDE 

At cool of day, with God I walk 
My garden's grateful shade ; 

I hear His voice among the trees, 
And I am not afraid. 

I see His presence in the night, — 
And, though my heart is awed, 

I do not quail beneath the sight 
Or nearness of my God. 

He speaks to me in every wind, 

He smiles from every star ; 
He is not deaf to me, nor blind, 

Nor absent, nor afar. 

His hand, that shuts the flowers to sleep 

Each in its dewy fold, 
Is strong my feeble life to keep, 

And competent to hold. 

I cannot walk in darkness long, — 
My light is by my side ; 



166 NO NIGHT 

I cannot stumble or go wrong, 
While following such a guide. 

He is my stay and my defence ; — 

How shall I fail or fall? 
My helper is Omnipotence ! 

My ruler ruleth all ! 

The powers below and powers above, 

Are subject to His care : 
I cannot wander from His love 

Who loves me everywhere. 

Thus dowered, and guarded thus, with Him 

I walk this peaceful shade ; 
I hear His voice among the trees, 

And I am not afraid. 



NO NIGHT 

" There shall be no night there." — Rev. xxi. 25. 

No night, no night ! O blessed dawn, 
When this frail body shall put on 
Immortal robes and bright renown, 
And with God's ransomed ones sit down ! 

No night of sorrow ! I shall be 
From every grief forever free ; 



NO NIGHT 167 

For God's own hand, with gentle sway, 
Shall wipe my latest tear away. 

No night of trial ! Here below, 
What thorns amid my roses grow ! 
But there, the flowers of my delight 
Shall know no thorn, shall fear no blight 

No night of sin ! Thrice blessed day ! 
How often here I go astray ! 
But when I reach that heavenly shore 
I shall be safe, and sin no more. 

No night of sickness ! Here in pain 
How oft I sink, then rise again ; 
But there, the tree of healing grows, 
An antidote for all my woes. 

No night of death ! O cherished few 
Whose hearts on earth to mine are true ! 
There we shall meet, and, meeting, be 
From change and death forever free. 

No night of tempest ! Storms arise 
And overcast these earthly skies ; 
There, all shall be serenely bright, 
Nor tempests blow, nor storms affright. 

No night of trouble, want or care, 
No night of sadness or despair ; 



168 THE ETERNAL WISDOM 

No night, no night, but there alway 
Calm, bright, serene, celestial day ! 

No night, no night ! . O blessed clime ! 
Fain would I leap this shoal of time, 
And rest with all the ransomed band, 
Within that bright, that happy land ! 



THE ETERNAL WISDOM 

Thanks, Lord, for Thy withholding grace, 

As for Thy favors granted ; 
Since, oft-times, what I craved, if given, 

Had been what least I wanted. 

And pausing at this finished round, 

This cycle of my being, 
My soul rejoices that its way 

Is with the Great All-Seeing. 

His plans are wiser far than ours, 
Who sees from the beginning ; 

And he who doubts the gracious end 
Repays the grace with sinning. 

Who — glancing down his tangled life, 
Its thousand tricksome phases — 

But sees a purpose running through, 
That all his soul amazes ! 



MARTHA OR MARY? 169 

Each grief, each trial, each defeat, 

Has had its end designed it ; 
Each sin has left its after-taste, 

Its bitter cure, behind it. 

And yet, O will of God, most wise ! — 

Who can by searching know it ? 
And who, by seeking to reveal, 

But fails the more to show it ! 

We wait the shining of that day 

That every cloud disperses, — 
Counting, the while, our losses, gains ; 

Our trials, tender mercies ; 

And clinging, still, to God's dear hand, 

In our poor human fashion ; 
Assured that all His ways are wise 

And all His thoughts compassion. 



MARTHA OR MARY? 

I cannot choose ; I should have liked so much 
To sit at Jesus' feet, — to feel the touch 
Of his kind, gentle hand upon my head 
While drinking in the gracious words he said. 

And yet to serve him ! — oh, divine employ, — 
To minister and give the Master joy, 



170 LOST AND FOUND 

To bathe in coolest springs his weary feet, 
And wait upon him while he sat at meat ! 

Worship or service, — which ? Ah, that is best 
To which he calls us, be it toil or rest, — 
To labor for him in life's busy stir, 
Or seek his feet a silent worshipper. 

So let him choose for us : we are not strong 
To make the choice ; perhaps we should go wrong, 
Mistaking zeal for service, sinful sloth 
For loving worship, — and so fail of both. 



LOST AND FOUND 

I had a treasure in my house 

And woke one day to find it gone ; 
I mourned for it from dawn till night, 
From night till dawn. 

I said, " Behold, I will arise 

And sweep my house," — and so I found 
What I had lost, and told my joy 
To all around. 

I had a treasure in my heart, 

And scarcely knew that it had fled, 
Until communion with my Lord 
Grew cold and dead. 



/ SAID 111 

"Behold," I said, "I will arise 

And sweep my heart of self and sin ; 
For so the peace that I have lost 
May enter in." 

O friends, rejoice with me ! Each day 

Helps my lost treasure to restore ; 
And sweet communion with my Lord 
Is mine once more. 



I SAID 

When apple blossoms in the spring 
Began their fragrant leaves to shed, 

And robins twittered on the wing, 
" 'T is time to sow my seeds," I said. 

So, patiently, with care and pains, 
My nurslings underground I spread : 

" The early and the latter rains 

Will reach them where they lie," I said. 

" The sun will nurse them, and the dew ; 

The sweet winds woo them overhead. 
No care of mine shall coax them through 

This black, unsightly mould," I said. 

And so I left them ; day by day, 
To gentle household duties wed, 



172 THE LOST SHEEP 

I went in quiet on my way : 

" God will take care of them," I said. 



And now 't is autumn ; rich and bright 
My garden blooms — blue, white, and red ; 

A loyal show ! a regal sight ! 
And all is even as I said. 

My faithless heart ! the lesson heed, 

No longer walk disquieted ; 
Where the Great Sower sows the seed, 

All shall be even as He said. 

'T is spring-time yet ; behold, the years 
Roll grandly in, hope-heralded, 

When thou shalt say, " Oh, graceless fears ! 
Lo ! all is even as He said ! " 



THE LOST SHEEP 

" Not willing that any should perish." 

O friend of sinners, who for man once died, 
While any wanderers remain outside 
The pale of thy sweet mercy, canst thou see 
Of thy sore travail, and be satisfied ? 

If but one sheep of all the guarded fold 
Is lost upon the mountain-tops, behold, 



SATISFIED 173 

The watchful shepherd leaves the rest, to seek 
The lost one ; finding it, aweary, cold, 

Its trembling limbs he tenderly doth chafe, 
And bears it in his bosom, warm and safe, 
Back to the fold. O shepherd all divine, 
Wilt thou do less for any human waif ? 

Shall earthly care with heavenly care compete ? 
May we not trust that all these wandering feet 
Shall reach at last thy sacred fold, and bide 
Forever in thy pastures large and sweet ? 



SATISFIED 

Not here ; my roses bear too many thorns ; 

My gold has in it too much of alloy ; 
The purple of my robe too oft adorns 

An aching soul ; my sweets too often cloy. 

Not now : the present has too much of pain — 
Too much, alas, of mingled hope and fear ; 

I set my loss too often 'gainst my gain ; 
I shall be satisfied not now, not here. 

But there ! but then ! in heaven ! when I wake 
In His dear likeness who for me once died ! 

Oh, fount of bliss ! in thee once let me slake 
My lifelong thirst — I shall be satisfied ! 



174 HYMN 



HYMN 



[For the Bicentennial of the First Congregational Church, Mar- 
blehead, August 13, 1884.] 

The changing centuries, God, 

Fulfil thy perfect thought : 
The ancient paths the fathers trod 
Are widening into highways broad 

Because thy hand has wrought. 

Our sires adored and worshipped thee, 

Yet feared beneath thy rod ; 
And if with clearer eyes we see 
Thy judgments with thy grace agree, 

We bless thee, O our God. 

They saw thee in the cloud and flame ; 

We see thee in the sun. 
Thanks for the years, that aye proclaim 
Thy justice and thy love the same, 

And joy and duty one. 

Dear Father, kind when most severe, 

Most loving when most just : 
To lead us through each changing year, 
In pastures wide, by waters clear, 

Thy guiding hand we trust. 



THE RETREAT 175 



THE RETREAT 1 

A refuge for life's burdened ones, 

A beautiful and calm retreat, 
Where toil may fold her weary hands 

And labor ease her aching feet. 

Oh, noble purpose — born of grief 

And loss — that planned this place of rest ! 

That wrought through patient years, till now 
Its glad fulfilment stands confessed ! 

Dear Lord, accept the gift, and make 
This Home the fair abode of peace, 

Where loving ministries shall dwell 
And care and toil find glad surcease. 

Here may the burdened seek repose, 
The sad take heart again, and here 

May joyless childhood wake once more 
Its happy laugh of careless cheer. 

So shall this blessed influence flow, 

An ever-widening sea of love ; 
Source of unnumbered joys below, 

And type of sweeter joys above. 

1 Written for the dedication, May 31, 1888, of " Rosemary Cot- 
tage," Eliot, Me., a summer retreat for poor children and tired 
women, founded by Mrs. Moses G. Farmer. 



176 IN WAR TIME 



IN WAR TIME 

I wandered in unquiet mood 

Beneath the stars : " Oh, Solitude 

And Night," I murmured, "ye are good ! 



" The day with ceaseless din is rife ; 
There is no room in this vexed life 
For anything but noise and strife. 

" When will the dreadful carnage cease, 
And the sweet Sabbath dawn of Peace 
Rise on the nation and increase ? 

" Oh, blessed Freedom ! haste the day ! 
For only 'neath thy perfect sway 
These horrors shall be rolled away." 

I looked up to the thronging stars ; 
Above, the flaming planet, Mars, 
Struggled and plunged through cloudy bars. 

Great drifts of misty shadow lay 
Like spectral ghouls athwart his way, 
Sullen and wrathful, cold and gray. 

And while I gazed, his fiery light 

Grew quenched and dim, then vanished quite 

My soul leaped upward at the sight ! 



IN WAR TIME 111 

" Thus perish from the earth," I said, 
" Thy baleful influence, carnage-wed 
And born of blood, thou planet red ! " 

Exulting, to the north I turned 
Impetuous — for my spirit burned 
To see the happy sign confirmed. 

There, keeping her inviolate tryst, 
Calm, undisturbed by any mist, 
Clear-shining as an amethyst, 

By no avenging cloud-gnomes driven, 
The sacred star to Freedom given 
Smiled on me from the tranquil heaven. 

And if I took it for a sign, 
The pointing of a Hand Divine, 
The impulse was not wholly mine. 

It calmed me to a better mood ; 
No more I said, " Oh, Solitude 
And Darkness, ye alone are good! " 

I blessed the day for what it brought 

Of truth and valor, battle-wrought ; 

The hearts that dared, the hands that fought. 

But most I blessed the gracious Power 
That guards the issues of the hour 
And waits to crown it with His dower ; 



178 THE WILL FOR THE DEED 

Peace, born of Freedom ! priceless boon ! 
Sweet keynote to a song shall soon 
Set a discordant world in tune ! 



THE WILL FOR THE DEED 

No sword have I, no battle-blade, 
Nor shining spear ; how shall I aid 
My country in her great crusade ? 

I cannot sow with gold the sod, 

Like Dragon's teeth, and from the clod 

See armed men rise, battle-shod. 

I may not stand in mart or hall 

And shout aloud great Freedom's call, 

" Come to the rescue, one and all ! " 

I am a woman, weak and slight, 
No voice to plead, no arm to fight, 
Yet burning to support the right. 

How shall I aid my country's cause ? 
How help avenge her trampled laws ? 
Alas, my woman's heart makes pause. 

With oil and wine I may not go 
Where wounded men toss to and fro, 
Beneath the invader's hand laid low. 



AFTER A VICTORY 179 

My little child looks up to me 

And lisps a stronger, mightier plea ; 

God wills where he is I should be. 

Ah well, I am not needed ! He 

Who knows my heart, perchance, for me 

Has other work than now I see. 

" They also serve who stand and wait." 
Oh, golden words ! and not too late, 
My soul accepts her humbler fate. 

Content to serve in any way, 
Less than the least, if so I may 
But hail the dawning of that day, 

When my beloved land shall rise, 

And shout as one man to the skies, 

" Lo, Freedom lives and Slavery dies ! " 



AFTER A VICTORY 

There is no need, sweet moon ! the night 
With other splendor is bedight, 
The dizened panes are all alight 

With taper-gleams ; and on the air, 
Commingled with the rocket's glare, 
A thousand torchlights flash and flare. 



180 AFTER A VICTORY 

'T is late ; but still, adown the street, 
So gay with flags, I hear the beat 
Of quick, exulting, restless feet ; 

And, over all, incessant swells 
The jangle of the village bells, 
And cannon booming o'er the dells ; 

For tidings thrilled us yesternight 
Of a brave victory ; how the fight 
Was fearful, but God helped the right. 

" The fight was fearful." Oh ! the pain 
And grief and loss against the gain ; 
The joy of triumph, and its bane ! 

O friends ! dear friends ! my pulses leap 
Loyal as yours ; yet I could weep 
Above this pageant that we keep. 

Bear with me ; but my heart is sore 
For our dead heroes ; score on score 
Shall see God's sweet light nevermore. 

They loved like us : the belts they drew 
Close for the fight zoned hearts as true 
And warm as beat in me and you. 

Their babes, like ours, were rosy-fair ; 

Had eyes as blue, as silky hair ; 

Their mother's hair and eyes, — ah, there 



POEM FOR DECORATION DAY 181 

You touch the tender spot ! pause, men ! 
Go home to wife and child, — and then, 
If ye have heart to, shout again. 

Ah well ! God send the night come soon 
When these mad bells another tune 
Shall clamor to the listening moon ; 

When lights in every pane shall gleam, 
And torches flash and rockets stream, 
Responsive to the bells' glad theme, — 

Freedom and peace : Great Power above ! 
Mate thou this eagle with this dove, — 
The rule of right, the rule of love ; 

And bid their married wings brood o'er 
This bleeding land of ours, — once more 
At one, and free from shore to shore ! 



POEM FOR DECORATION DAY 

Once more the changing seasons bring 

The lovely miracle of spring : 

The streams their cheery songs renew, 

The skies take on a deeper blue ; 

A spicy scent the air pervades, 

From blossoming boughs and ferny glades ; 

The sweet days lengthen unaware, 



182 POEM FOR DECORATION DAY 

The shortened nights grow warm and fair ; 

The woods their robe of russet brown 

Take off, and don a gayer gown ; 

The fields, to be as fine as they, 

Set all their subtle looms at play, 

And weave, unceasing, though unseen, 

Their great rich carpets, broad and green, - 

Designing deftly, here and there, 

Flower-patterns, pale, but passing fair, 

Counting on June's delicious skies 

To warm them into deeper dyes ; 

Blithe robins pour delirious notes 

Of welcome from their crimson throats ; 

The bluebird scarce can build his nest 

For the deep rapture at his breast, 

And pauses in his work, to sing 

This lovely miracle of spring. 

Oh, meet it is, dear friends, that we 

Should join this jocund company ; 

And — though we cannot quite be gay — 

Put on our singing robes to-day : 

Sing of the spirit's light and bloom, 

Sing how the Power that bursts the tomb 

Of nature, keepeth watch above 

The sepulchre of those we love. 

For they are risen ; they are not here : 

These graves, with each returning year, 

Ye deck with flowers, — but where are they 

Whose souls once habited the clay 



POEM FOB DECORATION DAY 183 

That sleeps beneath ? Thou knowest where, 

Dear Lord ; thou hast them still in care : 

The sparrow shall not fall without 

Our Father, and we will not doubt. 

Yet still we love, as spring returns, 

To gather round these sacred urns ; 

To come with brimful hands, and pour, 

From Nature's fast reviving store 

Of bud and bloom, our grateful gift, — 

White lilies, and the pink-white drift 

Of apple-blossoms, purple plumes 

Of lilacs, sweet syringa blooms ; 

Gay crocus-flowers and daffodils, 

And columbines from breezy hills : 

Searching the wood for flowery signs, 

We rifle it of half its vines, 

Pluck sweet arbutus, nor forget, 

Withal, the blue-eyed violet. 

No flower too lowly, none too rare 

For tribute ; love delights to spare, — 

Counting its costliest service small 

To theirs who, dying, gave up all ! 

O, if there be, above the rest, 

One spot by grateful footsteps pressed, 

One place where love and light and bloom 

Should rise triumphant over gloom 

And doubt and hate, 't is where they lie 

Who dared, for duty's sake to die ! 

Let nothing dark nor fearsome tread 

These haunts of our heroic dead, 



184 POEM FOR DECORATION DAY 

But light and joy and peace instead. 
Thrice hallowed spot ! There let the spring 
Bestow its earliest blossoming ; 
There let the singing robins come, 
And sparrows chirp, and insects hum ; 
And squirrels from the nutty wood 
People the peaceful solitude, 
And crickets sing among the grass, 
And troops of happy children pass : 
There friendships go, to plant the spot 
With heart's-ease and forget-me-not; 
And new-made lovers, passion-mad, 
Frequent the place and make it glad 
With shy half-glances as they walk, 
Sweet nothings and bewildered talk ; 
And mother lead her little child, 
In search of blossoms, nature-wild ; 
And all sweet care of man and God 
Plant flowers above the hallowed sod. 

Yet one more word, — heaven speed the day 

When wars from earth shall pass away, 

When principles more dear than life 

Shall triumph — but through love, not strife, 

And men shall own another might 

Than bloodshed, in defence of right : 

A day more hallowed even than this, — 

When righteousness and peace shall kiss ; 

And, in her quiet citadel, 

Mercy with truth delight to dwell ; 



FLOWERS FOR OUR DEAD 185 

When, in our Rama-homes, no sound 
Of lamentation shall be found, 
Henceforth, above our slaughtered ones, — 
Sad Rachels weeping for their sons, — 
But, in the stead thereof, shall rise, 
Reechoing to the farthest skies, 
Hosannas over war's surcease, 
Praises for love's divine increase, 
And pseans in the name of peace ! 



FLOWERS FOR OUR DEAD 

" Flowers for our dead ! " — and at the word 
As by a mandate from the Lord, 
The green earth blossomed ; far and wide 
Hill, valley, to the call replied. 

Flowers for our dead ! Oh ! lovely things ! 
God fashioned all your painted wings, 
And gemmed your starry eyes with dew, 
And gave you robes, red, white and blue. 

And here, beneath his sky, we stand, 
And take you from his gracious hand — 
Passing around with reverent tread 
To scatter you above our dead. 

Oh, flowers ! lie here, and breathe away 
Your unspent lives above this clay ; 



186 PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S GRAVE 

'T was thus exhaled their nobler powers 
Whose types ye are, unselfish flowers ! 

For thus they died — before their time — 
In youth's glad bloom, in manhood's prime ; 
Yielding their lives up, one and all, 
Obedient to a nation's call, 

As ye do now ! Oh, frail, sweet things, 
How pure a fragrance round you clings ! 
So round the memory of our dead 
How pure, how sweet the fragrance shed ! 



PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S GRAVE 

Lay his dear ashes where ye will, — 
On southern slope or western hill ; 
And build above his sacred name 
Your proudest monuments of fame ; 
Yet still his grave our hearts shall be ; 
His monument, a people free ! 

Sing sweet, sing low ; 

We loved him so ! 
His grave a nation's heart shall be ; 
His monument, a people free ! 

Wave, prairie winds ! above his sleep 
Your mournful dirges, long and deep ; 
Proud marble ! o'er his virtues raise 



CnARLES SUMNER 187 

The tribute of your glittering praise ; 
Yet still his grave our hearts shall be, 
His monument, a people free ! 

Sing sweet, sing low ; 

We loved him so ! 
His grave a nation's heart shall be ; 
His monument, a people free ! 

So just, so merciful, so wise, 
Ye well may shrine him where he lies ; 
So simply good, so great the while, 
Ye well may raise the marble pile ; 
Yet still his grave our hearts shall be, 
His monument, a people free ! 

Sing sweet, sing low ; 

We loved him so ! 
His grave a nation's heart shall be, 
His monument, a people free ! 



CHARLES SUMNER 

The friend of truth, of right, of man, 

His human sympathy o'erran 

The common limit, -to embrace 

Within its bounds the human race. 

He felt God's kinship coursing through 
His own pure veins, and straightway knew 
All men his kin, of every hue. 



188 CHANNING 

He knew no schism, sect, or clan, 
His love to God was love to man ; 
His creed, purged clean of human lies, 
This : " Mercy, and not sacrifice." 

Ah, bigot ! ask no more if he 
Were sound in faith ; go thou and be 
As sound in thy humanity. 



CHANNING 

O strong iconoclast ! whence came 

Your Titan stroke ? 
Whence, leaping from your lips of flame, 

The words you spoke ? 

What impulse fired you, that you trod, 

Alone, the field, 
And in the sight of man and God 

Reversed the shield, — 

The dreadful shield of injured law, — 

Till, in the place 
Of wrath and doom, the people saw 

A Father's face ? 

O Channing ! years have had no power 

That sight to dim : 
Our eyes, new-opened from that hour, 

Still turn to Him, — 



TO CnARLES SUMNER 189 

Our Father, — full of grace and truth, 

And veiled no more 
In creeds unholy and uncouth 

Like those of yore. 

So truth shall live ; so error die. 

Iconoclast ! 
The gods you shivered crumbling lie ! 

Your labors last ! 



TO CHARLES SUMNER 1 

We thank thee, Sumner ! Thou hast spoken the 

word 
God gave to thy safe keeping : thou hast set 
Life, death, before the nation ; thou hast hurled 
Thy single pebble, plucked from truth's pure 

stream, 
Into the forehead of a giant wrong, 
And it doth reel and tremble. Men may doubt, 
But the keen sword of right shall finish well 
Thy brave beginning. 

Courage, then, true soul! 
Not vainly hast thou spoken ; angels heard, 
And shook from their glad harps a gush of joy 

1 In recognition of his speech, "Emancipation our Best Weapon," 
before the Republican State Convention at Worcester, October 1, 
1831 ; published in " The Independent,"' and inserted as " a tribute 
which has merit of its own" in the Appendix to the Speech, vol. vi. 
of his "Works." 



190 TO CHARLES SUMNER 

That the one word was uttered in men's ears, 
The " Open Sesame " by which alone 
True freedom and true peace might enter in, 
Making earth like to heaven. 

Then bide thy time. 
What thou hast spoken as 't were in the ear 
Shall be proclaimed on housetops. God locks up 
In His safe garners every seed of truth, 
Until the time shall come to cast it forth, 
Saying, " Be fruitful, multiply, and fill 
The broad earth, till it shouts its harvest-home." 
His purposes are sure ; who works with Him 
Need fear no failure. By my hopes of heaven, 
I 'd rather speak one word for truth and right, 
That God shall have and treasure up for use 
In working out His purposes of good, 
Than clutch the title-deed that should insure 
A kingdom to my keeping ! so, in faith, 
I speak my simple word, and, fearing not, 
Commit it to His hands whom I do serve. 

And thus it is, O friend, that I have dared 
To send thee greeting and this word of cheer : 
God bless thee, Sumner, and all souls like thine, 
Working serene and patient in His cause ! 
God give thee of the fruit of thine own hands, 
And let thine own works praise thee in the gates 
Of the new city, whose foundation-stones 
Thy hands are laying, though men see it not ! 



THE LIBRARY 191 



THE LIBRARY 

[From the Ode read at the dedication of u The Wallace Library 
and Art Building," Fitchburg.] 

Ah, what a treasury of wisdom lies 

In a good book ! and who would not be wise ? 

What founts of sweetness and of strength well 

up 
From its deep heart ! who would not quaff the 

cup? 
The bees must know where honey-clews abound ; 
Oh, for a human instinct as profound ! 
The birds must fathom where the south land 

lies ; 
Oh, for an intuition half as wise ! 
For what are intuitions, but the soul's 
Blind Teachings after its supremest goals ; 
Divining helps whereby it may essay 
A stronger sweep along its upward way ; 
Seeking in glad, yet reverential mood, 
All gentle friendships with the wise and good 
Of every nation, age : and, look around ! 
Shall not such helps, such friendships here be 

found ? 
O sages, poets, who shall fill this place 
With lavish store of wisdom, sweetness, grace ! 
Here we may pay our homage and grow wise 
And glad beneath your helpful ministries. 
Here we may offer the allegiance meet 



192 THE LIBRARY 

To blind old Homer, sit at Milton's feet ; 
And learn of both, as fails the outward sight, 
To trim anew the spirit's inner light : 
May sing with Chaucer, walk in faerie land 
With sweet-lipped Spenser ; taking Dante's hand, 
Explore the dark abysses where, denied 
All hope of exit, hapless souls abide ; 
May summon Shakespeare — in himself a host — 
King Lear and sweet Ophelia, Hamlet's ghost, 
Sad Desdemona, Egypt's peerless queen, 
Coming and going on the shifting scene ; 
Commune with Cowper, walk afield with Burns, 
And listen to him as he sings by turns, 
Of luckless Tarn O'Shanter and his mare, 
Sweet Highland Mary and the Brigs of Ayr ; 
Or coming down to later times, rehearse 
With Tennyson his grand, immortal verse ; 
Talk with dogmatic, scholarly Carlyle, 
Uncouth, but grimly honest all the while ; 
Abide with our own Emerson, or go 
A-wooing after nature with Thoreau ; 
Though, for that matter, all the poets woo 
The gentle nymph, — and our immortal few, 
Our Whittier, and Longfellow, and Holmes, 
Bryant and Lowell, — whosoever roams 
With either, sees fair nature with new eyes, 
And life with larger possibilities. 



FITCHBURG 193 



FITCHBURG 



Nested among her hills she lies, — 

The city of our love ! 
Within her pleasant homes arise ; 
And healthful airs and happy skies 

Float peacefully above. 

A sturdy few, 'mid hopes and fears, 

Her fair foundations set : 
And looking backward now, through years 
Of steady gain, how small appears 

Her old estate ! and yet, 

She dons no autocratic airs, 

In scorn of humbler days, 
But shapes her fortunes and affairs, 
To match the civic wreath she wears 

And justify her bays. 

Honor and truth her old renown : 

Conservative of both, 
The virtues of the little town 
She holds in legacy, to crown 

The city's larger growth. 

Nor ease nor sloth her strength despoil : 

Her peaceful farmers till, 
With patient thrift, th' outlying soil, 



194 FITCHBURG 

Her trained mechanics deftly toil, 
Her merchants ply their skill ; 

Her ponderous engineries supply 

A thousand waiting needs ; 
Her wheels revolve, her shuttles fly, — 
And ever where the prize hangs high, 

Her foot, unfaltering, leads. 

Her sympathies are large and sweet : 

And when, at freedom's call, 
The war flags waved, the war drums beat, 
She sprang, responsive, to her feet, 
And freely offered all ! 

Alert in war, she emulates 

The arts of peace, as well : 
Religion, order, guard her gates ; 
Wealth, culture, thrift, like happy Fates, 

Her destinies foretell. 

So, through the round of years, she keeps, 

Advancing on her past : 
Her old-time vigor never sleeps, — 
And even as she sows, she reaps ; 

God bless her to the last ! 



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